THE  THEATRE 
OF  TOMORROW 


KENNETH  MACGOWAN 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 


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THE   THEATRE 
OF   TOMORROW 


KENNETH  MACGOWAN 


BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 


Copyright,  1921,  By 

BONI  &  LlVERIGHT,   INC. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


library 


. 


To  My  Wife 


CONTENTS 


PART  I.    THE  NEW  STAGECRAFT 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.    The  Twentieth  Century  Theatre 13 

Twenty-five  years  of  the  new  stagecraft.  Gordon  Craig 
and  Adolphe  Appia,  the  pioneer  theorists.  Other  artists 
and  directors.  The  principles  of  the  new  art  of  design 
— style  and  atmosphere,  through  simplification,  sugges- 
tion, and  synthesis. 

II.    The  Mechanician 27 

The  place  of  mechanical  reform  in  the  new  stagecraft. 
The  stage  machinery  of  the  Greeks.  Devices  for  shift- 
ing scenes — swinging  stage,  sliding  stage,  shadow  stage, 
revolving  stage.  Advantages  and  disadvantages  of  these 
devices  in  relation  to  the  artist.  Use  of  the  skeleton 
setting  and  forestage. 

III.  The  Electrician 46 

Light,  the  heart  of  the  stage  picture.  American  progress 
in  electrical  equipment.  Belasco,  electrical  pioneer. 
Continental  devices — the  Fortuny  and  Ars  Systems,  the 
plaster  sky-dome.     Broken  color. 

IV.  The  Painter 64 

The  easel  artist  in  the  new  theatre.  Bakst,  Golovin, 
Roerich.  The  older  theatre  of  pretense  that  came  be- 
fore realism.  The  Russian  artists  working  within  the 
conventions  of  the  older  theatre.  Painted  perspective  on 
backdrops  and  wings,  sublimated  by  the  painter's  genius. 
The  contribution  of  the  Ballet  Russe. 

V.     Appia — The  Light  as  Dramatist 76 

The  first  theorist  of  the  new  theatre.  A  designer  who 
understood  light.  The  dilemma  of  the  dead  setting  and 
the  live  actor.  His  analysis  of  lighting  methods  antici- 
pating reforms  of  191 5.  The  three-dimensional  stage. 
The  extension  of  his  theory  into  stage  direction. 

3 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  FAGS 

VI.     The  Accomplishment  of  Gordon  Craig 86 

The  man  of  the  theatre.  His  fundamental  conception — 
unity  of  production.  His  work  as  producer.  Banish- 
ing the  actor  for  the  "Ubermarionette."  For  the 
theatre,  a  "creative  art  of  its  own."  His  opposition  to 
footlights  and  perspective.  His  prescription  for  staging 
Macbeth. 

VII.    The  Plastic  Stage 101 

The  theories  of  Craig  and  Appia  produce  in  fifteen  years 
a  plastic  stage.  The  case  against  perspective.  When 
perspective  may  succeed.  Realism  and  imagination  united 
against  painted  pretense.  How  the  plastic  stage  limits 
the  artist  physically.     Spiritual  escapes. 

VIII.    Expressionism  in  the  Theatre 109 

The  limitations  of  the  plastic  stage  avoided  through  for- 
mal design.  The  application  of  expressionism  to  the 
theatre.  The  first  cubist  theatre,  the  Kamerny  in  Mos- 
cow. Cubism  reaches  the  American  stage  in  191 5.  Ab- 
stract treatment  of  light.  German  expressionist  pro- 
ductions. Griinewald's  and  Andree's  experiment  in 
Stockholm.  Yevreynoff's  dynamic  scenery.  The  Color 
Organ.  Jones'  Macbeth.  Representation  vs.  Pres- 
entation. 

IX.    The  Formal  Stage 126 

The  limitations  of  the  plastic  stage  avoided  by  turning  to 
structural  forms  upon  the  stage.  Craig's  screens. 
Hume's  adaptable  setting.  The  German  experiments  of 
Immermann,  Perfall  and  Savitts  with  the  Shakespeare 
Stage.  Skeleton  settings.  Littmann's  adaptable  pro- 
scenium. 

X.    The  Actor  Re-animated 147 

The  problem  of  the  actor  and  the  auditorium  replaces  the 
problem  of  the  setting.  Meyerhold  and  the  "theatre 
theatrical."  Arthur  Hopkins'  theory  of  "unconscious 
projection."    Copeau's  re-animation  of  the  actor. 

PART  II.    THE  NEW  PLAYHOUSE 

XI.    The  Eternal  Theatre 161 

The  religious  birth  of  drama.  Its  progress  through  twenty- 
five    centuries.      The    open-air    Greek    theatre.      The 

4 


CONTENTS 

HAPTER  PAGE 

decadent  Roman  parody.  The  church  as  theatre.  The 
mediaeval  platform  stage.  The  booths  of  the  guilds. 
Shakespeare's  bear-pit.  The  street  theatre  of  the  corn- 
media  dell'  arte.  The  Itaiian  opera  house  and  the 
Inigo  Jones  masques  produce  the  Victorian  theatre.  The 
peep-show  stage  of  today. 

XII.    The  Movies — The  Curtain  Becomes  the  Stage    .     .176 
Putting  realism  upon  the  "fourth  wall"  by  means  of  light. 
The  possibilities  of  the  movies  as  the  theatre  of  imagina- 
tion.    Their  affinity  with  realism.     They  may  become 
drama  but  never  theatre. 

XIII.    The  Next  Theatre 184 

Experiments  toward  a  playhouse  opposed  to  realism.  The 
projects  of  Schinkel  and  Goethe,  of  Semper  and  Wag- 
ner. Littmann's  influence.  Theatres  of  distinctly  new 
form.  The  Dalcroze-Appia  experiment  in  Hellerau. 
Reinhardt's  Theatre  of  the  Five  Thousand.  Projects 
of  the  artists.     Copeau's  Vieux  Colombier. 


PART  III.    THE  NEW  PLAY 

XIV.    A  Theatre  Without  Plays 211 

The  new  stagecraft  criticised  as  a  movement  without  plays. 
Inigo  Jones  vs.  Shakespeare.  Why  the  producers  have 
gone  back  of  the  peep-show  stage  to  the  classics  for 
dramas  of  imagination.  The  Zeitgeist  of  an  imaginative 
theatre  finds  its  first  expression  through  the  most  sensi- 
tive factor  in  the  playhouse,  the  artist.    The  actor's  part. 

XV.    The  Twilight  of  Realism 221 

The  rise  of  realism  and  its  form,  the  three-  and  four- 
act  play.  The  breakdown  of  this  form  in  the  past  twenty 
years.  The  emergence  of  freak  plays:  plays  within  plays, 
plays  told  backward,  dream  plays.  The  increase  in  num- 
ber of  scenes.     Back  to  the  costume  play. 

XVI.    The  Form  of  the  Future 234 

The  new  playwright  avoids  the  distortion  of  cramming  his 
action  into  three  or  four  scenes.  The  influence  of  the 
motion  picture  on  playwright  and  audience.  The  re- 
turn of  the  soliloquy.  Rhythmed  prose  and  varying  verse. 

5 


CONTENTS 


XVII.  Thb  Content  of  the  Future  .  .  .-  .  ■.-  y  .  .  246 
Dramatising  the  unconscious  mind.  Experiments  in  mental 
drama.  Yevreynoff's  monodrama.  The  Italian  futur- 
ists' synthetic  theatre.  The  German  expressionist  play- 
wrights. Kaiser's  From  Morn  to  Midnight.  The  heroic 
figure  returns.  A  drama  of  the  deep  instinctive  forces 
of  life. 

XVIII.    A  Drama  of  Intimacy  and  of  Crowds 265 

The  conflict  of  the  little  theatre  and  the  circus,  of  the  real 
and  the  aesthetic.  Mass  drama  introduces  the  "group 
being."  A  beginning  in  Jones's  scheme  for  The  Cenci. 
The  mask,  the  marionette  and  the  open-air  theatre. 

XIX.    The  Theatre  of  Democracy 

The  possibilities  of  the  theatre  as  a  democratic  art.  Real- 
ism: its  cause  and  cure.  The  economic  basis  of  the 
thesis-play.  The  possibilities  of  the  future  when  so- 
ciety is  released  from  industrialism.  Democracy  through 
art. 

A  Bibliographical  Appendix 283 

Index 289 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR 
Pelleas  and  Melisande — Design  by  Jones Frontispiece 

FACING  PACK 

King  Lear — Design  by  Geddes 20 

Thamar — Design  by  Bakst 66 

Prince  Igor — Design  by  Roerich 72 

Petrushka — Design  by  Benois 1 10 

Pulcinella — Design  by  Picasso 124 

Mme.  Chrysantheme — Design  by  Rosse 146 

The  Song  of  Roland — Design  by  Jones 274 

ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  HALF-TONE 

FACING  PAGB 

King  Lear — Reinhardt  Production 16 

Faust  as  Set  by  Reinhardt 18 

Everyman — Setting  by  Linnebach 22 

The  Seven  Princesses — Design  by  Jones 24 

Twelfth  Night — Urban's  Shakespeare  Stage 44 

Boris  Godunoff — Design  by  Golovin 68 

The  Blue  Bird  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 70 

Die  Walkiire — Four  Designs  by  Appia 82  and  84 

Macbeth — Design  by  Gordon  Craig 98 

Liliom — Setting  by  Simonson 106 

Soldiers  from  a  Cubist  Salome 1*4 

Expressionist  Costumes  by  Picasso 116 

7 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PACK 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing — Expressionist  Style 118 

Caligari — Expressionism  on  the  Screen 120 

Macbeth — Designs  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones 122 

Hamlet  in  Craig's  Screens 128 

Hume's  Adaptable  Setting 130 

The  Faithful — Screen  Setting  by  Simonson 132 

Richard  III — Designs  by  Jones 134 

Immermann's  Shakespeare  Stage 138 

The  Munich  Shakespeare  Stage 140 

Shakespeare  at  the  Munich  Royal  Court  Theatre      ....  142 

The  Bonds  of  Interest — Design  by  Peters 144 

The  Dalcroze  Playhouse 190 

A  Hellerau  Production  by  Appia 192 

A  Reinhardt  Circus  Production 194 

Reinhardt's  New  Circus  Theatre 196 

In  the  Theatre  of  the  Five  Thousand 198 

The  Divine  Comedy — Arrangements  by  Geddes 204 

Theatres  Designed  by  Herman  Rosse 206 

Copeau's  Permanent  Stage 208 

ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  THE  TEXT 

PAGE 

Reinhardt  at  Rehearsal 17 

Dantons  Tod — Sketch  by  Stern 22 

Section  of  a  Stage 29 

The  Swinging  Stage 32 

The  Sliding  and  Sinking  Stage 36  and  37 

The  Japanese  Revolving  Stage 38 

The  Revolving  Stage  Set  for  Henry  IV,  Part  I 39 

8 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGX 


The  Revolving  Stage  in  Action 41 

The  Cloister — A  Skeleton  Setting 43 

Papa — Designs  by  Geddes 45 

The  Fortuny  System 54 

A  Modern  German  Theatre 57 

Costumes  by  Bakst 72 

Five  Settings  in  One 130 

The  Munich  Kunstler  Theater 134 

Cross-section  of  a  Littmann  Theatre 135 

La  Nave — A  Draped  Background 137 

The  English  Portals 142 

A  Greek  Theatre 164 

A  Roman  Theatre 165 

The  Mediaeval  Platform  Stage 167 

The  Booth  Stage  of  the  Guilds 168 

An  Elizabethan  Theatre 169 

The  Commedia  dell'  Arte 171 

An  Italian  Comedy  Setting 172 

An  Italian  Court  Masque 173 

An  Inigo  Jones  Masque 175 

Reinhardt's  Grosses  Schauspielhaus 196 

Plan  of  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus 197 

Reinhardt's  Projected  Festspielhaus 199 

A  Theatre  without  a  Proscenium 203 

Plan  for  The  Divine  Comedy 205 

The  Stage  for  The  Divine  Comedy 206 

Copeau's  Stage  in  New  York 209 


Part  One 
the  new  stagecraft 


THE 
THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  THEATRE. 

TIE  thing  that  has  been  called  the  new  move- 
ment in  the  theatre  is  a  quarter  of  a  century 
old.  It  has  swept  the  playhouses  of  Germany 
and  Russia,  touched  lightly  the  French  and  British 
stages,  and  in  the  last  seven  years  risen  to  dominance 
in  the  serious  theatre  of  America.  It  is  not  a  simple 
thing — this  stream  of  theory  and  effort.  Its  source  is 
not  found  in  any  single  mind.  Its  course  is  cut  cease- 
lessly by  cross-currents,  and  muddied  by  alien  waters. 
As  with  most  things  so  intensely  human  as  the  art  of 
the  theatre,  close  definition  only  confuses.  It  is  com- 
plex with  experiment  and  compromise.  It  goes  back 
to  the  Greeks  and  on  to  a  new  theatre  as  different  from 
ours  of  the  nineteenth  century  as  ours  is  different  from 
the  Greeks'.  At  the  moment,  I  feel,  it  has  completed 
only  part  of  its  work — the  development  of  a  technique 
of  production,  which  we  call  the  new  stagecraft.     In 

13 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

doing  this,  it  has  hinted  at  a  new  sort  of  playhouse  and 
a  new  (or  a  very  old)  relation  of  play  and  audience. 
It  seems  to  me  to  be  going  on  to  the  creation  of  a  mod- 
ern type  of  drama  which  will  utilize  the  new  technique 
and  express  the  new  relation. 

No  movement  in  the  theatre  has  ever  been  simple 
enough  for  the  purposes  of  the  pigeonhole.  Giants  like 
Hugo  and  Ibsen  may  serve  as  expressions  of  the  ro- 
mantic and  the  realistic  movements  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  But  they  have  acquired  stature  through  the 
passage  of  time,  and  about  them  in  their  own  day  stood 
playwrights,  actors  and  producers  now  forgotten  from 
whom  and  to  whom  impulse  flowed  in  the  web  of  con- 
temporary effort.  The  new  stagecraft  has  its  giant — 
Gordon  Craig — a  giant  who  will  grow  greater  in  as- 
pect as  he  and  his  contemporaries  fade  into  the  past. 
Yet  it  would  be  a  reckless  critic  who  would  lay  upon 
Craig  alone  the  origination  of  a  movement  which 
sprang  up  in  imperfect  form  at  half  a  dozen  points  in 
Europe  during  the  years  before  and  after  1900. 

As  far  back  as  1808  a  German  critic,  August  Wil- 
helm  Schlegel,  gave  an  admirable  summary  of  what 
was  to  be  the  theory  of  the  new  stagecraft,  covering  a 
surprising  number  of  the  points  raised  by  Craig,  Appia 
and  the  theorists  and  artists  who  followed  them :  "Our 
system  of  decoration  was  properly  invented  for  the 
opera,  to  which  in  reality  it  is  also  best  adapted.  It 
has  several  unavoidable  defects ;  others  which  may  be, 

14 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  THEATRE 

but  seldom  are,  avoided.  Among  the  inevitable  de- 
fects, I  reckon  the  breaking  of  the  lines  in  the  side 
scenes  from  every  point  of  view  except  one;  the  dis- 
proportion of  the  player  when  he  appears  in  the  back- 
ground against  objects  diminished  in  perspective;  the 
unfavorable  lighting  from  below  and  behind ;  the  con- 
trast between  the  painted  and  the  actual  lights  and 
shades;  the  impossibility  of  narrowing  the  stage  at 
pleasure,  so  that  the  inside  of  a  palace  and  a  hut  have 
the  same  length  and  breadth.  The  errors  which  may 
be  avoided  are  want  of  simplicity  and  of  great  and  re- 
poseful masses;  the  overloading  of  the  scene  with  super- 
fluous and  distracting  objects,  either  because  the  painter 
is  desirous  of  showing  off  his  strength  in  perspective 
or  because  he  does  not  know  how  otherwise  to  fill  up 
the  space;  an  architecture  full  of  mannerism,  often 
altogether  unconnected,  nay,  even  at  variance  withj  pos- 
sibility, colored  in  a  motley  manner  which  resembles 
no  species  of  stone  in  the  world." 

Similar  ideas  motivated  the  attempts  of  Tieck  and 
Immermann  in  1840,  and  of  Perfall  and  Savitts  in  1890 
to  construct  Shakespearean  stages  freed  from  all  the 
folderol  of  scenic  convention.  In  1875  Godwin  was  de- 
signing and  theorizing  in  admirable  fashion  upon  stage 
settings  for  Shakespeare.  In  1880  Anselm  Feuer- 
bach,  the  German  painter,  wrote:  "I  hate  the  modern 
theatre  because  my  sharp  eye  always  sees  through  the 
cardboard  and  the  rouge.    From  the  bottom  of  my  soul 

15 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

I  hate  the  misdeeds  committed  in  the  name  of  decora- 
tion and  everything  that  belongs  thereto.  It  spoils  the 
public,  frightens  away  the  last  remnant  of  artistic  feel- 
ing, and  encourages  barbarisms  of  taste,  from  which 
real  art  turns  away  and  shakes  the  dust  off  its  feet.  The 
true  work  of  art  has  enough  power  within  itself  to 
make  its  situations  visible  and  real  without  unworthy 
artificial  means,  which  violate  all  the  canons  of  art. 
Unobtrusive  suggestion  is  what  is  needed,  not  bewil- 
dering effects." 

All  these  criticisms  and  efforts  were  vagrant  anti- 
cipations of  an  art  movement  which  was  to  find  its 
first  constructive  theorist  and  practitioner  in  Adolphe 
Appia.  In  1893  Appia  published  in  French  a  brochure 
dealing  with  the  setting  of  Wagner's  operas.  In  the 
next  few  years  he  made  sketches  to  illustrate  his 
theories,  and  in  1899  ne  published,  in  German  transla- 
tion, his  second  and  now  classic  volume,  Die  Musik 
und  die  Inscenierung.  This  book  had  an  unquestioned 
effect  in  Germany,  though  Appia  and  his  ideas  are,  even 
today,  far  less  broadly  known  the  world  over  than 
Craig's. 

Gordon  Craig — whose  genius  has  been  the  greatest 
force  in  the  theatre  since  Ibsen — played  from  1889  to 
1896  in  the  company  of  Henry  Irving  and  Craig's  moth- 
er, Ellen  Terry.  When  he  left  Irving  he  turned  to  the 
study  of  stage  management.  With  the  exception  of  an 
experiment  with  a  play  by  deMusset  at  Uxbridge,  he 

16 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  THEATRE 


attempted  no  productions  until  1900.  He  gave  no  ex- 
hibitions of  his  designs  until  1902.  He  published  no 
connected  account  of  his  theories  until  1905.  Mean- 
while William  Poel  worked  ceaselessly  upon  his  recre- 
ations of  the  Elizabethan  stage  and  the  re-introduction 
of  Shakespeare  properly  arranged;  and  Henry  Wilson, 
an  instructor  in  art  in  London,  designed  and  pre- 
sented in  The  Masque  of  Beauty  in  1899  a  considerable 
share  of  the  ideas  and  effects  associated  with  the  new 
stagecraft. 

During  these  same  late  nineties  Max 
Reinhardt,  destined  to  become  the  most 
famous  of  modern  regisseurs,  was  grad- 
ually deserting  the  theatre  of  Otto 
Brahm,  arch-realist,  and  the  Neue 
Freie  Volksbiihne  for  a  type  of  vivid 
dramatic  cabaret  which  he  developed 
definitely  between  1900  and  1901  in  his 
Schall  und  Rauch.  In  the  next  few 
years  he  brought  his  more  pungent  and 
vigorous  realism  to  a  wedding  with  the 
newer  ideas  of  Craig  and  Appia  in  his 
Kleines  and  Neues  theatres  and  later  in 
his  Kammerspielhaus.  By  1905  he  was 
well  launched  upon  the  exploitation  of 
the  new  methods  of  staging.  With 
Reinhardt — himself  an  actor,  director 
and  manager — there  developed  a  group  of  scenic  de- 

17 


REINHARDT  AT 
REHEARSAL 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

signers.  In  German  theatres  producers  like  Georg 
Fuchs  and  Paul  Schlenther,  artist-directors  like  Carl 
Hagemann  and  Max  Martersteig,  and  designers  like 
Ernst  Stern,  Julius  V.  Klein,  Alfred  Roller,  Heinrich 
Leffler,  Willy  Wirk,  Ludwig  von  Hofmann,  Ludwig 
Sievert,  Ottomar  Starke,  Karl  Walser,  Fritz  Erler, 
Czeschka,  Emil  Orlik  and  Adolf  Linnebach,  paral- 
leled the  progress  of  Reinhardt. 

In  Russia  when  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  was 
founded  in  1898  by  Stanislavsky  and  Nyemirovich- 
Dantchenko,  the  realistic  movement  fused  to  a  certain 
extent  with  the  impulse  towards  unity  of  production 
and  completeness  of  emotional  expression  on  the  part 
of  the  actors,  which  is  a  necessary  feature  of  the  newer 
movement.  Yet,  for  all  the  perfection  of  ensemble  in 
the  Art  Theatre  and  the  readiness  to  experiment  with 
fresh  methods,  as  shown  in  its  production  of  The  Blue 
Bird  in  1908-09  and  its  invitation  to  Craig  to  produce 
Hamlet  with  his  screen-settings  in  191 2,  the  Art  Thea- 
tre owed  its  greater  allegiance  to  realism.  For  that 
reason  there  departed  from  its  ranks  in  1906  a  player 
and  producer  who  was  to  contribute  signally  to  the  fore- 
front of  theory  of  the  new  "theatre  theatrical" — Mey- 
erhold. 

In  Paris,  the  home  of  Antoine,  founder  of  the  first 
"free  theatre",  the  new  stagecraft  had  only  intermittent 
and  hesitating  interpreters  until  Jacques  Rouche 
founded  the  Theatre  des  Arts  in  1907.     Before  him 

18 


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setting   and    h^nt 
Max   Reinhardt. 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  THEATRE 

there  was  Riviere,  Fort,  Lugne-Poe;  after  him,  the 
greatest  of  French  regisseurs  and  a  most  uncompromis- 
ing, fecund  and  creative  force — Jacques  Copeau. 

These  are  the  men  who  were  creating  the  theory  and 
the  technique  of  the  new  stagecraft  in  the  opening  dec- 
ade of  the  twentieth  century  and  pushing  it  to  com- 
pletion in  the  years  just  before  the  war.  They  were 
working  partly  unknown  to  one  another,  partly  in  co- 
operation. What  precisely  were  they  working  upon? 
What  is  the  technique  they  evolved? 

It  is  a  technique  that  applies  to  realistic  plays  as  well 
as  to  plays  of  spiritual  emphasis,  plays  of  color,  im- 
agination, exaltation,  inner  truth.  It  can  create  illusion 
as  well  as  understanding.  It  can  perfect  the  old  thea- 
tre as  well  as  launch  the  new.  It  does  in  fact  range 
from  a  beautified  realism  to  absolute,  abstract  form. 
Its  one  definite  limit  cuts  it  off  from  the  theatre  of 
photographic  realism.  It  is  always  and  utterly  opposed 
to  the  copying  upon  the  stage  of  the  confusion  and  de- 
tail of  actuality.  Arthur  Hopkins,  the  producer  who 
has  done  most  for  the  progress  of  the  new  stagecraft  in 
the  commercial  American  theatre,  as  Maurice  Browne 
has  done  most  for  it  in  the  world  of  the  little  theatre, 
effectively  disposes  of  the  photographic  setting  in  his 
odd,  lively  and  suggestive  little  book,  How's  Your 
Second  Act? 

"An  attempt  at  exact  reproduction  challenges  the 
.  .  .  mind  of  the  audience  to  comparison.  ...  If  a 

19 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Child's  Restaurant  in  all  its  detail  is  offered,  it  remains 
for  the  audience  to  recall  its  memory  photograph  of  a 
Child's  Restaurant  and  check  it  up  with  what  is  shown 
on  the  stage.  .  .  .  The  result  of  the  whole  mental  com- 
paring process  is  to  impress  upon  the  auditor  that  he 
is  in  a  theatre  witnessing  a  very  accurate  reproduction, 
only  remarkable  because  it  is  not  real.  So  the  upshot 
of  the  realistic  effort  is  further  to  emphasize  the  un- 
reality of  the  whole  attempt,  setting,  play,  and  all.  So 
I  submit  that  realism  defeats  the  very  thing  to  which 
it  aspires.  It  emphasizes  the  faithfulness  of  un- 
reality." 

For  a  positive  purpose  the  new  stagecraft  sets  itself 
to  visualize  the  atmosphere  of  a  play.  Its  artists  aim 
to  make,  in  the  settings  called  for  by  the  text,  an  emo- 
tional envelope  appropriate  to  the  dramatic  mood  of 
the  author,  a  visualization  in  color,  line  and  light  of 
the  dominant  emotions  to  be  pictured  by  the  actors. 

Broadly  speaking  the  artist  achieves  this  through 
style.  The  playwright  has  his  style,  the  artist  must 
have  his  also.  There  is  perhaps  this  difference:  The 
playwright,  choosing  his  subject,  may  retain  a  domi- 
nant style  through  all  his  plays,  if  only  his  tempera- 
ment makes  him  choose  unerringly  the  subjects  suited 
to  his  style.  The  artist  has  the  subject  chosen  for  him 
— by  the  dramatist.  To  some  extent  he  must  play  the 
chameleon.  He  must  alter  his  own  natural  style  of 
work  to  suit  the  play.     Some  artists  can  achieve  the 

20 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  THEATRE 

necessary  effect  of  a  fresh  and  appropriate  style  while 
retaining  the  general  characteristics  in  color,  line,  or 
structure  that  are  peculiar  to  him.  Other  artists — 
Norman-Bel  Geddes  is  a  notable  example — recreate 
their  own  styles,  develop  an  entirely  new  and  distinc- 
tive technique  for  each  fresh  production.  But  in  spite 
of  a  common  personal  style  an  artist  may  vary  the  meth- 
od of  its  expression  from  production  to  production  and 
even  within  a  single  production.  Thus  Joseph  Urban 
— who  has  probably  a  more  distinctive  and  fixed  style 
than  any  other  scenic  designer  in  America — may  prac- 
tice an  enriched  and  meaningful  realism  in  Le 
Prophete,  a  decorative  method  in  Don  Giovanni,  and 
abstraction  in  superficially  realistic  Nju;  or  he  may 
run  from  realism  to  abstraction  and  symbolism  in  a 
single  opera  such  as  St.  Elizabeth. 

Within  the  limits  of  atmosphere  and  style,  what  are 
the  methods  of  the  new  stagecraft?  What  are  the 
artistic  means  appropriate  to  the  theatrical  problem? 
They  are  simplification,  suggestion  and  synthesis. 

Simplification  is  the  test  in  almost  all  great  art. 
Simplification  of  effect  always;  simplification  of 
means  generally.  On  the  stage  simplification  of  both 
effect  and  means  are  essential,  because  the  scenery  is 
not  the  only  thing  to  be  seen.  Stage  architecture  is 
not  architecture  alone,  or  stage  picture  merely  stage 
picture.  The  setting  is  the  background  of  the  actor. 
And  it  is  essential  that  he  shall  be  properly  set  off  by  his 

21 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

background  and  properly  fused  in  it.  He  must  mean 
more  because  of  the  setting,  not  less.  The  case  against 
the  old  setting  is  that  either  its  garishness  or  its  de- 
tail tends  to  obscure  the  actor.  On  the  stage  we  must 
have  simplification  for  art's  sake.     But  we  must  have 


From  Reinhardt  und  Seine  Biihne 

DANTONS  TOD — SKETCH    BY   STERN 

As  produced  by  Reinhardt 

it  even  more  for  the  sake  of  the  actor — and  therefore 
of  the  play. 

The  complement  to  simplification  is  suggestion. 
Simplify  as  much  as  you  please;  you  only  make  it  the 
more  possible  to  suggest  a  wealth  of  spiritual  and  aes- 

22 


SBH^HMHIHi 

From   The   Theatre  of   Today. 

EVERYMAN — SETTING    BY    MN'N'EBACH 

Through  a  simplified  use  of  the  Gothic,  Adolf  Linnebach  sug- 
gests in  his  production  at  the  Dresden  Opera  House  both  the  reli- 
gious atmosphere  and  the  period  of  the  old   morality   play. 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  THEATRE 

thetic  qualities.  A  single  Saracenic  arch  can  do  more 
than  a  half  dozen  to  summon  the  passionate  back- 
ground of  Spanish  Don  Juan.  One  candlestick  can 
carry  the  whole  spirit  of  the  baroque  La  Tosca;  one 
Gothic  pillar  build  the  physical  reality  and  the  spirit- 
ual force  of  the  church  that  looms  above  Marguerite. 
On  the  basis  of  simplification,  the  artist  can  build  up 
by  suggestion  a  host  of  effects  that  crude  and  elaborate 
reproduction  would  only  thrust  between  the  audience 
and  the  actor  and  the  play.  The  artist  can  suggest 
either  the  naturalistic  or  the  abstract,  either  reality  or 
an  idea  and  an  emotion. 

Finally,  the  dominant  quality  in  modern  stage  pro- 
duction is  synthesis.  For  modern  stage  art,  in  spite  of 
all  the  easel  artists  who  may  care  to  practice  the  paint- 
ing of  backdrops  and  let  it  go  at  that,  is  a  complex  and 
rhythmic  fusion  of  setting,  lights,  actors  and  play. 
There  must  be  consistency  in  each  of  these,  consistency 
of  a  single  kind  or  consistency  that  has  the  quality  of 
progression  in  it.  And  there  must  be  such  consistency 
among  them  all.  Half  the  portrait,  half  the  landscape, 
cannot  be  in  Whistler's  style  and  the  other  half  in 
Zuloaga's.  The  creation  of  a  mood  expressive  of  the 
play  is,  after  all,  the  final  purpose  in  production.  It 
can  no  more  be  a  jumble  of  odds  and  ends  than  can 
the  play  itself. 

The  achievement  of  this  synthesized  suggestion  of  a 
play's  simple,  essential  qualities  has  been  sought  by 

23 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

the  great  theorists  in  very  different  ways.  Gordon 
Craig  would  get  it  mainly  by  design,  backed  by  color. 
Adolphe  Appia  fuses  his  drama  in  light.  Jacques 
Copeau,  whose  beliefs  and  whose  work  must  take  a 
high  place  in  the  record  of  theatrical  progress,  achieves 
the  play  through  restriction  of  means  and  the  re-crea- 
tion, at  each  production,  of  every  element  from  the 
theatre  building  to  the  actor. 

I  think  a  single  scene  of  a  play  produced  by  two 
Americans — and  a  modern,  realistic  play,  at  that — 
can  be  taken  as  an  example  of  the  working  out  of  the 
three  fundamentals  in  a  fused  whole.  It  is  the  open- 
ing scene  of  a  failure  produced  by  Arthur  Hopkins 
a  few  years  ago,  The  Devil's  Garden.  The  opening 
of  the  play  showed  a  postal  clerk  hauled  up  for  exam- 
ination on  charges,  in  the  room  of  a  member  of  that 
.bureaucracy,  the  British  general  post  office.  The  set- 
ting was  shallow,  perhaps  ten  feet  deep.  At  each  end 
was  a  door  set  in  a  wall  at  right  angles  to  the  footlights. 
The  rear  wall  was  without  opening,  and  its  only  deco- 
ration was  a  buff-toned  map.  Three  chairs  and  one 
desk.     And  some  actors.     Simplification. 

But  that  simple  room  fairly  breathed  bureaucracy, 
the  thing  that  was  about  to  grip  the  clerk.  Its  walls 
were  a  dull  gray;  its  door  casings,  map  frame,  narrow 
wainscoting  and  furniture  were  black — the  same  gray 
and  black  of  the  morning  clothes  of  the  officials. 
These  tones  and  these  people  made  a  well-composed 

2,4 


From    The  Theatre  Arts  Magazint 


THE    SEVEN    PRINCESSES — DESIGN    RY    JONES 

The  skeleton  of  a  Gothic  apse,  with  circular  steps,  shutting  in  the  characters 
of  Maeterlinck's  play.  Compare  this  abstract  treatment  of  architectural  form 
with  the  simplified  hut  literal  representation  in  I.innehach's  Everyman  opposite 
page  22. 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  THEATRE 

harmonious  picture,  but  it  was  a  picture  instinct  with 
formality.  The  colors,  the  proportions,  the  map — 
all  simple  suggestions  of  the  reality  that  ruled  the 
whole  great  invisible  building  behind. 

For  synthesis,  there  was  not  only  the  consistency  of 
this  gray  and  black  duotone  and  its  restrained  light- 
ing. There  was  the  handling  of  furniture  and  people 
— the  stage  direction;  for  while  I  shall  talk  a  great 
deal  of  the  artist  and  the  picture  because  they  are  new 
to  the  stage,  it  must  always  be  remembered  that  only 
through  the  direction  can  play,  actors,  settings  and 
lights  be  properly  fused.  The  desk  and  chairs  were 
precisely  and  formally  square  with  the  square  walls. 
The  people  entered  from  the  end  doors,  moved 
squarely  and  formally  up  to  each  other,  face  to  face, 
precise.  It  was  a  machine,  the  machine  of  government 
property.  That  scene,  as  designed  by  Robert  E.  Jones 
and  directed  by  Arthur  Hopkins,  was  a  perfect  piece 
of  realism,  and  a  perfect  piece  of  abstraction  besides. 
It  showed  the  possibilities  of  the  new  art  for  the  drama 
of  today  as  well  as  for  the  more  significant,  spiritual, 
colorful  type  of  play  for  which  so  many  of  us  are  hop- 
ing and  of  which  the  new  stagecraft  and  its  potentiali- 
ties seem  a  portent. 

Unquestionably  the  purpose  of  the  immense  fresh 
effort  which  has  thus  poured  into  the  theatre  in  these 
twenty-five  years  is  not  the  perfecting  of  plays  like 
The  Devil's  Garden.     Three  signs  forbid  this:  First, 

25 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

the  new  stagecraft  always  achieves  its  most  moving 
success  in  plays  of  another  sort,  in  The  Jest  as  staged 
by  Robert  E.  Jones  and  Arthur  Hopkins,  in  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  as  staged  by  Ernst  Stern  and 
Max  Reinhardt  or  by  Norman  Wilkinson  and  Gran- 
ville Barker,  in  The  Blue  Bird  as  staged  by  V.  E.  Yeg- 
oroff  and  Stanislavsky.  Second,  the  greatest  of 
the  artists  tend  steadily  toward  more  abstraction 
in  their  settings,  toward  those  distinctive  qualities 
of  the  modern  art  movement  which  fuse  in  "ex- 
pressionism;" you  may  see  this  in  Craig's  Hamlet 
done  with  screens  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre, 
in  Jones's  Macbeth.  Third,  artists  and  directors  alike 
turn  more  and  more  toward  the  problem  of  the  phys- 
ical playhouse,  toward  reforms  in  proscenium,  fore- 
stage  and  setting,  which  make  for  a  wholly  new  rela- 
tion of  audience  and  play,  and  which  demand  a  type 
of  drama  fitted,  like  the  drama  of  the  Greeks,  of 
Shakespeare,  of  Moliere,  for  presentation  upon  a  stage 
where  illusion  is  not  so  important  as  emotional  inti- 
macy, directness,  clarity. 

It  is  the  purpose  of  these  pages  to  set  forth  the  ideas 
behind  the  new  stagecraft,  the  reforms  in  the  physical 
playhouse  and  the  changes  in  contemporary  plays 
which  all  point,  as  I  see  it,  towards  a  new  drama,  and 
to  attempt  to  outline  that  drama  in  its  broader  aspects. 


26 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MECHANICIAN. 

ACROSS  some  twenty  centuries  one  factor  con- 
nects iEschylus  with  The  Follies  of  IQl8.  It  is 
not  the  actors,  not  the  music,  not  the  spoken 
word,  not  even  the  chorus.  It  is  one  of  the  humbler 
partners  in  theatrical  production,  the  mechanician. 
When  the  moment  came  to  shift  the  scenes  of  Zieg- 
feld's  miscellaneous  (revue,;  the  stage-hands  grasped 
the  edges  of  six  or  eight  huge,  triangular  prisms 
of  canvas  standing  in  lines  down  the  sides  of  the 
stage,  and  revolved  them  a  third  of  a  turn,  thus  pre- 
senting to  the  view  of  the  audience,  when  the  front 
curtain  rose,  a  new  side  of  each  with  a  new  decoration 
upon  it.  When  it  was  necessary  for  the  drama  of  The 
Eumenides  to  shift  from  the  temple  at  Delphi  to  the 
temple  at  Athens,  certain  functionaries  of  the  theatre 
of  Dionysus  in  Athens  turned  just  such  prisms  before 
the  birth  of  Christ.  There  were  two  of  these  curious 
objects — the  periaktoi — one  at  each  side  of  what  we 
must  call  the  stage.  On  their  various  sides  were 
painted  symbolic  indications  of  the  settings.  A  wave- 
line  indicated  the  sea  shore;  an  appropriate  device,  the 
city  of  Athens.     The  means  was  roughly  the  same  as 

27 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

in  the  work  of  the  artists  of  our  own  new  stagecraft 
— a  simplified  suggestion  of  place  or  atmosphere. 
Martin  Harvey,  the  English  actor  who  brought  a 
Reinhardtian  production  of  CEdipus  Rex  to  Covent 
Garden,  London,  before  the  war,  utilized  two  such 
periaktoi  in  his  production  of  The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,  each  large  enough  to  make  all  the  setting  re- 
quired at  the  side  of  the  stage,  when  combined  with 
an  appropriate  backdrop.  When  he  designed  The  Fol- 
lies of  IQl8  Joseph  Urban  used  three  or  four  nar- 
rower periaktoi  at  each  side,  in  addition  to  his  back- 
drops. In  all  three  cases  the  ingenuity  of  the  mecha- 
nician was  at  the  bottom  of  the  scenic  effect,  yet  it  was 
an  ingenuity  and  a  mechanism  peculiarly  appropriate 
to  an  artistic  solution  of  one  of  the  biggest  of  scenic 
problems — quick  changes  of  scene. 

This  problem  has  united  the  stage  mechanic  very 
closely  with  the  artist  of  the  new  stagecraft.  The 
whole  history  of  the  theatre  is  filled  with  examples  of 
machines  for  creating  this  or  that  effect — the  deus  ex 
machina  of  the  Greeks,  bearing  a  confession  of  the  me- 
chanical in  the  very  name;  the  Hell  Mouth  of  the 
mediaeval  stage;  the  devices  of  Inigo  Jones  in  his  Stu- 
art masques;  the  traps  of  the  eighteenth  century  stage; 
the  hydraulic  bridges  and  the  "Asphale'ia"  jacks  that 
raised  sections  of  the  stage  in  Victorian  days — but  the 
mechanical  reforms  of  the  past  twenty-five  years  in 
the  German  theatre  have  had  to  do  almost  altogether 

28 


THE  MECHANICIAN 

with  giving  the  artist  greater  freedom  in  playing  upon 
the  emotions  of  the  audiences  through  rapid  changes 
of  scene.  In  the 
days  when  Craig, 
Appia,  Fuchs  and 
Reinhardt  were 
working  upon  the 
reform  of  the  set- 
ting, the  mechani- 
cians of  the  Ger- 
man theatre  were 
busy  with  the  in- 
vention of  devices 
to  shift  settings  me- 
chanically. The 
impulse  had  come 
primarily  from  the 
realistic  theatre. 
Before      audiences 

demanded        reality        This  cut,  from  The  Century  Dictionary,  is  in- 

nnnn   the  srao-e    the    tended  to  take  the  P,ace  of  a  g'°ssary  and  to 
upun   uit  aidgc,    U1C    make  clear  teci,njcaj  terms  used  jn  tnis  anti  suc. 

Problem  Of  Shifting    ceeding  chapters.     A  is  the  apron,  which  may 

become  the  forestage;  /,  /,  border  lights;  g,  g, 

SCenery     WaS     COm-    fly-galleries;  h,  proscenium  arch;  i,  j,  curtains; 

*  I        i,  asbestos  fire-proof  curtain.    The  backdrop  is 

paratlVely      Simple.    tne  |ast  piece  Qf  scenery  to  the  left;  in  front  of 

Both    interiors    and     '*  stand  ^ats  *n  ^e  w'ngs-   The  proscenium  in- 
cludes the  pillar  by  the  boxes  as  well   as  the 

exteriors    prior    to  arch. 
1850  were  made  up 

of  backdrops,  borders  above  and  light  canvas  wings 

29 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

thrust  out  from  each  side  parallel  to  the  footlights. 
Rooms  did  not  have  side  walls;  they  had  something 
that  might  better  be  described  as  screens  between  which 
the  actors  made  their  exits.  Back  drops,  borders  and 
wings  could  be  moved  quickly,  either  "flied"  (raised  by 
ropes  to  the  gridiron  above),  slid  back  in  grooves,  or 
moved  aside  bodily.  With  the  coming  of  straight  side 
walls  which  could  neither  be  flied  nor  slid  in  grooves,  of 
ceilings  in  place  of  borders,  and  particularly  of  real 
wooden  doors,  mantelpieces  and  even  wainscoatings, 
shifting  settings  required  the  labor  of  a  large  corps  of 
stage  hands.  The  mechanicians  then  began  working  on 
the  problem  of  how  to  make  these  changes  more 
quickly  by  eliminating  as  much  hand  labor  as  possible. 
They  solved  the  problem  in  time  to  serve  the  ends  of  the 
new  artist.  Their  devices  are  of  first-rate  importance 
because  they  give  the  artist  greater  freedom  to  build 
solidly  and  honestly,  because  through  quick  changes 
they  permit  the  director  to  play  more  effectively  on 
the  emotions  of  the  audience  by  flinging  scene  after 
scene  upon  them  with  only  one  rather  long  intermis- 
sion for  relaxation,  and  because  many  of  the  devices 
give  the  settings  themselves  a  curious  and  interesting 
unity. 

America  has  contributed  very  little  to  the  solution 
of  this  mechanical  problem.  The  strange  and  fertile 
genius  of  Steele  MacKaye,  the  father  of  Percy  Mac- 
Kaye,  the  playwright,  worked  upon  it.     His  first  so- 

30 


THE  MECHANICIAN 

lution  was  the  "drop  stage"  or  "elevator  stage"  in- 
stalled in  the  old  Madison  Square  Theatre  when  it  was 
built  in  1884  and  modeled,  it  is  said,  on  a  device  used 
by  Booth  ten  years  before.  This  consisted  of  two 
floors  or  stages,  one  above  the  other.  While  one  stage 
was  at  the  level  of  the  proscenium  opening,  the  other, 
either  above  or  below,  could  be  reset  for  the  next  scene. 
Elaborate  and  powerful  machinery  raised  or  lowered 
this  gigantic  double-decked  elevator.  Like  most  de- 
vices for  making  changes  of  scene  without  the  use  of 
the  gridiron,  it  made  little  way  in  America  because 
scenery  built  to  meet  its  requirements  could  not  be 
handled  comfortably  in  other  theatres;  this  interfered 
with  road  tours.  For  his  projected  Spectatorium  at  the 
World's  Fair  in  Chicago  MacKaye  devised  a  much 
more  intricate  stage  to  produce  panoramic  changes 
of  scene  as  well  as  water  spectacles.  Along  concentric 
tracks  circling  out  from  the  centre  of  the  proscenium 
opening,  sections  of  the  stage  were  to  move  on  trucks. 
Another  device  of  MacKaye's,  adapted  from  Euro- 
pean models,  provided  "chariots"  or  trucks  below  the 
stage  floor,  which  was  so  slotted  that  masts  fastened 
to  the  chariots  and  carrying  pieces  of  scenery  could  be 
slid  back  and  forth  at  will. 

America's  next  contribution  was  the  swinging  stage, 
first  introduced,  I  believe,  by  Arthur  Hopkins  and 
Joseph  Wickes  for  On  Trial  in  19 16,  and  used  again 
the  same  year  by  Joseph  Urban  in  his  production  of 

3i 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Twelfth  Night  for  Phyllis  Neilson-Terry.  In  the 
case  of  Twelfth  Night,  the  swinging  stage  was  installed 
to  make  changes  in  rather  small  settings  behind  an 
inner  proscenium  which  stood  throughout  the  play.  In 
On  Trial  the  swinging  stage  rilled  the  whole  normal 
proscenium  opening.  The  principle  is  simple,  and 
the  device  does  not  interfere  with  touring,  since  the  two 


PJatform  L 


Auditorium 
THE  SWINGING  STAGE 

As  introduced  by  Arthur  Hopkins  in  On  Trial.  While  the  setting  on 
one  platform  is  in  view,  the  other  platform  is  being  re-set  in  the  wings 
and  made  ready  to  take  its  place. 

platforms  needed  may  be  packed  and  carried  about. 
These  platforms  are  a  little  larger  than  the  sets  to  be 
used.  The  left  front  corner  of  one  is  pivoted  behind 
the  left  base  of  the  proscenium  arch;  the  right  front 
corner  of  the  other  behind  the  right  base.  While 
one  of  these  platforms  is  in  place  before  the  curtain, 
the  other  is  swung  into  the  wings  and  the  scene 
changed.  They  move  on  rollers  upon  concentric 
metal  tracks  laid  on  the  floor.     In  On  Trial  their  use 

32 


THE  MECHANICIAN 

was  most  successful  and  most  necessary,  since  the  play 
required  the  scene  to  shift  rapidly  from  a  court  room  to 
the  spots  where  the  incidents  that  the  witness  was  de- 
scribing had  occurred. 

The  German  theatre  is  responsible  for  the  perfecting 
of  practically  all  the  other  methods  of  quick  scene- 
shifting  now  in  use,  and  in  Germany  they  find  their 
fullest  employment.  One  of  the  most  curious,  be- 
cause it  alters  the  position  of  the  settings  as  we  are 
used  to  them  on  the  stage,  is  in  use  at  the  Werkbund 
Theater  in  Cologne  designed  by  van  de  Velde.  The 
plan  is  to  divide  the  stage  opening  into  three  sections 
and  to  use  only  one  section  at  a  time.  The  line  of  the 
footlights  and  the  edge  of  the  stage,  instead  of  being 
straight  or  convex  as  in  practically  all  theatres,  curves 
inward  and  away  from  the  audience.  A  curtain  of  the 
general  color  of  the  walls  is  arranged  to  cover  what- 
ever sections  of  the  stage  are  not  to  be  visible,  and  is 
designed  to  seem  a  continuation  of  the  house  itself. 
Thus,  as  Oliver  M.  Sayler  describes  it,  for  the  first 
scenes  in  Faust  the  curtain  covers  the  right  two-thirds 
of  the  proscenium  opening  while  in  the  left  third 
Faust's  study  is  visible.  For  the  next  scene,  the  third 
at  the  right  is  used,  with  the  curtain  covering  the  rest 
of  the  opening.  After  another  view  of  the  study,  the 
whole  stage  is  utilized  for  an  exterior  as  it  would 
normally  be,  with  the  wall  of  a  building  hastily  set 
across  the  front  of  the  study.    The  obvious  defect  of 

33 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

this  method  would  seem  to  be  that  the  audience  have  to 
twist  about  in  their  seats  or  at  least  turn  their  attention 
in  a  new  direction  at  each  change  of  scene.  Casual  wit- 
nesses such  as  Sayler,  however,  have  found  this  re- 
adjustment easy  to  make. 

Sayler  describes  in  The  Russian  Theatre  Under  the 
Revolution  another  device  which  also  utilizes  only  part 
of  the  stage  at  a  time.  It  is  in  use  at  the  Studio  Theatres 
connected  with  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  It  consists 
of  a  curtain  running  on  a  horizontal  pole  pivoted  near 
the  back  of  the  stage.  As  it  is  swung  to  the  right  or 
the  left  it  conceals  or  discloses  one  side  or  the  other 
of  the  stage.  While  the  setting  on  one  side  is  hidden, 
it  is  quietly  changed,  and  the  back  of  the  curtain  itself 
ornamented  with  some  applied  device.  When  the  cur- 
tain is  swung  across  to  the  other  side  a  new  scene  is 
disclosed. 

In  the  American  theatre  changes  of  scene  have  some- 
times been  made  by  lighting  up  one  part  of  the  stage 
while  keeping  another  in  darkness.  Thus  in  Crooked 
Gamblers  under  the  direction  of  Robert  Milton,  a  di- 
rector trained  in  Moscow,  rooms  on  two  floors  of  an 
office  building  were  shown  in  rapid  succession  by  erect- 
ing the  whole  structure  on  the  stage  and  switching  off 
the  lights  on  one  floor  as  the  lights  came  on  upon 
another. 

The  German  theatre  has  made  extensive  use  of  three 
mechanical  devices  described  in  Hiram  K.  Moder- 

34 


THE  MECHANICIAN 

well's  Theatre  of  Today — the  sliding  stage,  the  revolv- 
ing stage  and  the  wagon  stage.  The  sliding  stage,  in- 
vented by  Fritz  Brandt  of  the  Royal  Opera,  Berlin,  is 
practically  the  elevator  stage  of  MacKaye  worked  side- 
wise.  The  acting  floor  is  on  rollers  and  is  drawn 
out  to  one  side  while  a  similar  section,  already  set,  is 
wheeled  into  its  place.  For  convenience  the  stage  is 
sometimes  divided  into  two  or  three  sections  parallel 
to  the  footlights.  Any  one  or  all  three  may  be  slid 
out  at  pleasure.  The  disadvantage  of  the  sliding  stage 
is  that  it  requires  on  each  side  of  the  stage  proper  a 
section  of  clear  floor  as  large  as  that  behind  the  pro- 
scenium opening.  This  is  hardly  available  when  thea- 
tres are  built  in  districts  of  high  rent.  Adolf  Linne- 
bach,  the  talented  technical  director  of  the  new  Konig- 
liches  Schauspielhaus  of  Dresden  (as  it  was  called  in 
1914)  obviated  part  of  the  difficulty  by  using  hydraulic 
jacks  to  raise  and  lower  the  floor  of  the  stage  upon 
which  the  platforms  rested.  Thus,  as  Moderwell  puts 
it,  the  stage  "does  its  sliding  in  the  basement,"  where 
there  is  ample  room.  An  added  advantage  of  this  ar- 
rangement is  that  the  three  longitudinal  sections  of  the 
stage  can  be  raised  easily  to  different  heights  for  ter- 
races, balconies,  etc. 

Another,  a  simpler  and  a  cheaper  equipment  for  scene 
shifting  is  the  wagon  stage.  This  consists  of  a  group 
of  a  dozen  or  more  small  platforms  about  six  feet  by 
twelve    mounted    on    wheels    and    sometimes    self- 

35 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 


propelled.  The  scenery  is  merely  fastened  against  the 
edges  of  these  wagons,  with  the  bottom  of  the  "flats" 
just  clearing  the  floor.  Two  or  more  wagons  may  be 
lashed  together  to  carry  larger  sections  of  the  setting 


1 


THE  SLIDING  AND  SINKING  STAGE 
A  section  through  the  former  Kdnigliches  Schauspielhaus  in  Dresden. 
The  drawing  shows  at  the  top  a  backdrop  suspended  from  the  gridiron 
in  the  ordinary  fashion.  In  the  basement  are  three  other  settings  waiting  for 
the  stage  to  be  lowered,  the  used  scene  slid  off,  and  one  of  the  three  moved 
into  its  place,  and  raised  to  the  stage  level,  occupied  in  the  drawing  by  an 
exterior  setting.    The  front  edge  of  the  dome  is  indicated  by  the  curving  line. 

or  heavy  platforms  or  staircases.  These  wagons  sim- 
ply take  the  place  of  stage  hands  in  moving  the  walls 
of  settings  into  place.  In  America,  when  Charles 
Klein  introduced  solid  wooden  settings,  the  sections 
of  the  walls  were  so  arranged  that  they  would  tip  back 

36 


THE  MECHANICIAN 

onto  casters;  and  thus  they  carried  with  them,  so  to 
speak,  their  own  wagons.     The  German  wagons  can 


THE   SLIDING  AND   SINKING  STAGE 
A    section    through   the    Kdnigliches    Schauspielhaus    showing   the    three 
lengthwise    divisions   of   the    stage    raised    to    different    levels   to    represent 
terraces. 

be  used  upon  an  ordinary  stage,  upon  the  sliding  stage 
in  order  to  facilitate  the  resetting  of  the  section  in  the 
wings,  or  upon  the  much  more  celebrated  revolving 
stage. 

37 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

The  revolving  stage  was  perfected  by  Karl  Lauten- 
schlager,  and  introduced  first  in  1896  at  the  Residenz 
Theater  in  Munich.  Play  Production  in  America, 
by  Arthur  Edwin  Krows,  is  authority  for  the  state- 
ment that  it  was  "known  prior  to  1880  in  a  French 
playhouse."     It  first  came  to  America  at  the  Liberty 


From  Scribner's  Magazine 

THE    JAPANESE   REVOLVING   STAGE 

The  original  from  which  Lautenschlager  adapted  this  scene-shifting 
device  in  1896.  The  stage  is  shown  while  turning.  The  curtain  does  not 
descend. 

Theatre,  Oakland,  Cal.,  where  it  was  introduced  by 
Harry  Bishop.  Winthrop  Ames,  who  had  made  an 
extensive  study  of  European  stages,  installed  a  revolv- 
ing stage  at  the  New  Theatre  in  191 1  and  at  his  Little 
Theatre  built  later.  In  the  two  New  York  houses  the 
device  has  been  little  used  of  late  years,  largely  because 

38 


THE  MECHANICIAN 

settings  have  to  be  built  to  tour,  not  to  suit  a  single 
peculiar  stage-device.  To  get  the  most  out  of  a  revolv- 
ing stage,  its  scenery  should  be  especially  designed  to 
utilize  its  peculiar  advantages. 


From  The  Theatre  of  Today 


THE   REVOLVING  STAGE   SET  FOR  HENRY  IV,  PART  I 
The  stage   of  Reinhardt's  Deutsches  Theater  as   arranged   for  the  first 
part    of    Shakespeare's   chronicle    play.     As    the    stage    is    turned,    the    five 
Bettings  are  successively  presented  to  view. 

The  German  revolving  stage  finds  its  original  in 
Japan  where  it  has  been  in  use  for  years.  As  adapted 
to  European  conditions  it  consists  of  a  great  circle  of 

39 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

the  stage  surface,  considerably  wider  than  the  prosce- 
nium opening,  cut  out  and  so  pivoted  or  supported  as 
to  turn  freely.  Upon  this  circle  the  various  scenes  are 
set  practically  back  to  back.  Two  to  five  or  six  set- 
tings can  be  accommodated,  some  large,  some  small. 
They  occupy,  as  it  were,  the  segments  of  a  pie.  First 
one  setting  is  presented  to  the  proscenium,  then  the 
stage  is  slowly  revolved  until  the  next  setting  comes 
opposite  the  opening.  While  one  set  is  being  used, 
others  may  be  altered  or  cleared  away.  The  cut  on 
page  39  illustrates  how  the  circle  is  divided  and  the  cut 
on  page  41  how  the  settings  are  built  up. 

The  building  up  of  the  settings  contains  both  ad- 
vantages and  disadvantages  for  the  revolving  stage. 
Obviously  so  long  as  it  is  used  for  setting  a  number  of 
scenes  a  clear  stage  for  any  one  of  them  is  impossible. 
So  long  as  there  must  be  a  room  waiting  on  the  rear 
part  of  the  circle  there  cannot  be  an  exterior  scene 
showing  a  level  view  of  the  horizon.  In  theatres  such 
as  Reinhardt's  using  the  revolving  stage,  exterior 
scenes  are  built  up  from  the  line  of  the  footlights  over 
the  top  of  the  other  settings.  Otherwise,  for  exteriors 
or  very  large  interiors,  the  revolving  stage  must  cease 
to  revolve  and  be  treated  as  an  ordinary  stage  floor. 

Aside  from  swift  changes  of  scene,  the  advantages 
of  the  revolving  stage  lie  in  the  relations  of  the  various 
settings  built  upon  it.  The  hilly  exteriors,  which 
would  be  costly  to  build  if  they  were  not  supported  by 

40 


m' 


From  Reinhardt  und  Seine  Biihne 

THE  REVOLVING  STAGE  IN   ACTION 
Six  sketches  by  Ernst  Stern  showing  the  process  of  building  up  the  scenery 
upon  the  revolving  stage  until  five  or  six  scenes  are  ready  for  presentation 
upon  the  turning  of  the  great  disk  on  which  they  rest.     In  the  last  sketch 
we  look  through  the  proscenium  frame. 

41 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

other  settings,  are  obviously  interesting.  Moreover, 
in  the  dovetailing  of  the  various  rooms  and  houses, 
which  are  clamped  together  on  a  steel  frame,  a  certain 
unity  is  produced.  One  room  may  be  made  to  lead 
out  of  another,  or  a  court-yard  from  a  street.  Indeed 
Reinhardt  occasionally  turns  his  stage  in  full  view  of 
the  audience,  after  the  Japanese  manner,  and  permits 
his  actors  to  walk  from  one  setting  into  the  next,  from 
the  street  before  Capulet's  house,  for  instance,  into 
Juliet's  garden. 

Other  devices  for  eliminating  long  waits  have  been 
developed  by  the  new  artists  and  regisseurs  as  inherent 
parts  of  the  design  of  their  productions.  These  are 
even  more  interesting  than  the  inventions  of  the  me- 
chanics, and  frequently  point  ahead  to  a  new  concep- 
tion of  the  playhouse  as  a  place  not  seeking  realistic 
illusion  but  formal  beauty.  Perhaps  I  should  say  a 
very  old  conception,  for  these  devices  frequently  recall 
the  stage  of  Shakespeare.  The  simplest  is  practically 
Elizabethan.  It  is  the  revival  of  the  forestage.  The 
apron  is  extended  out  or  down  towards  the  audience. 
On  each  side  are  permanent  portals  or  new  prosce- 
niums  with  openings.  Back  of  these,  perhaps  about 
where  our  present  curtain  line  comes,  is  a  new  picture 
frame  closed  by  hangings.  These  hangings  with  a 
few  properties  may  present  a  scene  on  the  forestage. 
The  curtains  can  be  drawn  apart  disclosing  a  deeper 
stage  with  other  furniture,  or  an  exterior.    This  form 

42 


THE    CLOISTER — A    SKELETON    SFTTINO 

Sheldon  K.  Viele's  arrangement  of  scenes  for  Verhaeren's  play,  as  pro- 
duced by  the  New  York  Theatre  Guild.  The  arches  remain  in  place 
throughout 

43 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

of  stage  has  been  used  much  for  Shakespearean  pro- 
ductions in  Germany,  where  theatres  have  been  built  or 
rebuilt  for  the  purpose.  The  plan  has  been  applied 
to  older  theatres  and  to  our  own  playhouses  by  install- 
ing an  inner  proscenium  six  to  ten  feet  back  of  the  foot- 
lights and  treating  this  area  as  the  forestage.  Urban's 
Twelfth  Night  added  its  swinging  stage  to  this  device. 
Granville  Barker  built  a  forestage  into  Wallack's 
Theatre  during  his  season  in  1914-15  and  used  the  first 
boxes  for  entrances  or  portals. 

Somewhat  related  to  such  an  arrangement  are  the 
permanent  settings  and  the  skeleton  settings  so  often 
utilized  both  here  and  abroad.  The  permanent  setting 
is  some  sort  of  equipment  of  columns,  pilons,  arches 
and  draperies  rearranged  quickly  and  easily  for  va- 
rious scenes  and  utilized,  over  and  over  again,  by  Sam 
Hume  at  the  Arts  and  Crafts  Theatre,  for  various 
productions.  It  is  perhaps  the  slowest  of  the  methods 
of  making  changes  of  settings  here  described,  as  well  as 
the  cheapest.  The  skeleton  setting  implies  carrying 
through  all  the  scenes  of  any  play  a  general  structure 
that  is  only  altered  in  minor  particulars.  Thus  in  The 
Cloister,  as  staged  by  Sheldon  K.  Viele  for  the  New 
York  Theatre  Guild,  a  row  of  Gothic  arches  stood 
through  the  whole  play.  With  a  background  of  mon- 
astery wall,  it  served  for  the  first  act  of  Verhaeren's 
play.  For  the  chapter  house,  a  different  backdrop  was 
added,  as  well  as  a  chair  and  benches;  for  the  chapel, 

44 


From    The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine. 

TWELFTH    NIGHT — URBAN's  SHAKFSI'FARF    SFTTIN'C 

Two  sketches  for  Twelfth  Night  as  produced  by  CJeorge  ('.  Tyler  in  191  5, 
with  side  portals  and  an  inner  proscenium,  within  which  settings  were  changed  by 
means  of  the  swinging  stage. 


^ta. 


^± 


TON     pARlOft.      IN   AM    APARTMENT 


SITT/WC    R.OOM  l/V  A   HOTEL 
PAPA — DESIGNS    BY    NORMAN-BEL    GEDDES 
Permanent  side  walls   and  arched  ceiling   remain   throughout  the   play. 
The    three    different    settings    are    secured    economically    and    illusively    by 
changes  in  the  back  walls   and  the  furniture. 

45 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

an  altar,  a  grating  and  benches  sufficed  to  make  a  new 
scene.  The  unity  of  such  a  treatment  is  valuable,  and 
the  ingenuity  of  the  artist  in  handling  his  problem 
increases  the  aesthetic  pleasure.  Hume  derived  his 
permanent  setting  from  a  more  elaborate  and  imagi- 
native scheme  for  the  use  of  folding  screens  of  all 
widths  and  heights  devised  by  Gordon  Craig  and  uti- 
lized by  him  in  his  production  of  Hamlet  at  the  Mos- 
cow Art  Theatre. 

In  these  schemes  of  the  artists  for  simplifying  the 
problem  of  changes  of  set  and  permitting  the  easy 
production  of  plays  with  many  scenes,  there  is  the  im- 
plication of  a  new  physical  playhouse  and  a  new  way 
of  looking  at  the  problems  of  production.  Realism  is 
at  a  discount;  the  convention  of  the  fourth  wall  is 
discarded;  the  picture  frame  proscenium  ignored. 
The  audience  is  put  into  a  new  relation  with  the  play- 
ers and  the  play,  an  intimate  and  a  truly  theatrical 
relation.  All  this  in  very  obvious  transition  towards 
a  new  playhouse  built  for  a  style  of  production  utterly 
unrealistic,  quite  apart  from  representation  or  illusion. 
Such  methods  as  Craig's  and  Hume's  imply  also  a 
movement  towards  expressionism,  towards  a  use  of  ab- 
stract shapes  and  non-representative  objects  and  design 
to  express  mood  and  atmosphere.  We  pass  from  the 
problems  of  the  mechanic  to  the  problems  of  the  artist. 


46 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  ELECTRICIAN. 

LIGHT  is  the  heart  of  the  stage  picture.  In  the 
hands  of  the  artist  it  is  more  important  than  the 
brush.  Light  can  make  drama  in  a  void.  And 
light  has  been  the  last  discovery  of  our  theatre. 

In  The  Theatre  of  Today  Hiram  K.  Moderwell  has 
admirably  sensed  and  expressed  the  importance  of 
light  and  the  reason  for  its  importance.  "There  is  a 
living  principle  in  lighting,"  he  says,  "second  only  to 
that  of  the  actor  himself."  Fundamentally,  I  feel,  it 
is  akin  to  the  power  that  turned  primitive  man  to  sun- 
worship;  light  fructifies  the  stage  as  the  sun  fructifies 
nature.  There  may  be  a  spiritual  quality  in  the  line  of 
a  column  or  the  pose  of  an  actor's  body;  there  is  always 
a  spiritual  quality  in  light,  even  when  it  is  only  illu- 
mination. Moderwell  got  close  to  the  basic  appeal  of 
light  in  the  playhouse  when  he  wrote: 

"Put  a  man  in  a  dark  room  and  make  him  fix  his 
gaze  for  a  certain  length  of  time  on  a  bright  spot  and 
you  centre  his  attention  to  a  focal  point,  deadening  the 
merely  logical  factors  of  his  brain  and  sensitizing  him 
many  times  over  to  sensuous  impressions — a  state  of 

47 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

partial  hypnosis.  Now  these,  within  certain  limits, 
are  exactly  the  conditions  of  the  theatre — a  spectator 
in  a  dark  room  looking  at  a  bright  spot.  And  a  state 
of  partial  hypnosis,  at  least  to  the  extent  of  deadening 
the  logical  faculties  and  heightening  the  sensuous  ones, 
is  precisely  that  desirable  for  the  complete  reception 
of  a  work  of  art." 

It  is  also,  unfortunately,  the  state  for  the  reception 
of  a  work  of  specious  art — at  least,  until  the  subject  of 
this  hypnosis  becomes  a  little  more  accustomed  to  the 
arts  of  the  stage  electrician  than  he  is  at  present.  Actors 
and  plays  beautifully  lighted  can  take  on  an  extraor- 
dinarily deceptive  quality.  I  have  been  conscious  of 
enjoying  performances  and  plays  of  most  uneven  merit 
when  they  were  dramatized  with  the  sculptural  and 
atmospheric  lighting  of  the  new  stagecraft. 

Progress  in  lighting  has  been  so  rapid,  even  on 
Broadway,  that  we  are  apt  to  forget  how  amazingly 
bad  it  was  once.  Praising  the  beauty  of  the  German 
stage  in  1913,  and  finding  in  the  lighting  the  soul  of 
its  beauty,  Moderwell  wrote:  "It  seems  to  an  Ameri- 
can imagination  impossible  that  a  stage  should  be 
other  than  glaring  white."  Today  it  seems  to  an 
American  imagination  impossible  that  our  stage  light- 
ing was  ever  glaring  white.  Yet  until  the  season  of 
191 4- 1 5,  when  David  Belasco  eliminated  the  footlights 
from  his  Belasco  theatre,  and  introduced  in  place  of  the 
old  border  lights  the  thousand-watt  filament  lamps, 

48 


THE  ELECTRICIAN 

with  the  x-ray  reflectors,  how  flat  and  bare  and  taste- 
less even  the  best  of  our  lighting  was. 

Picture  a  production  of  those  days.  A  backdrop, 
or  at  best  a  rather  shallow  and  wrinkled  cyclorama, 
sharply  bright  towards  its  upper  edge,  where  the  last 
row  of  border  lights  hung,  and  glowing  in  feverish  spots 
at  each  side  where  the  floods  or  bunches  stood;  right 
and  left,  wings  similarly  lighted;  above,  three  parallel 
rows  of  flapping  canvas  borders,  simulating  the  sky  or 
perhaps  the  branches  of  a  peculiar  variety  of  tree 
which  grows  in  this  well-trained  fashion  from  one  side 
of  the  stage  to  the  other,  and  lit  more  brightly  than 
wings  or  backdrop  by  the  border  lights,  those  hideous 
footlights  of  air;  finally  the  footlights  proper  glaring 
up  in  pitiless,  shadowless  brilliance  upon  the  under 
side  of  tables  and  the  actors'  chins.  Not  a  shadow  in 
the  whole  picture,  unless  it  was  the  shadow  of  a  table 
cast  upwards  by  the  footlights  in  some  darker  room. 

Here  in  the  province  of  the  electrician  we  can  at 
least  thank  American  genius  for  liberation  from  ugli- 
ness and  stupidity.  Certain  European  devices — the 
Fortuny  system  of  indirect  lighting,  particularly  the 
domed  plaster  sky  which  sprang  from  it,  and  the  Ars 
system  of  cyclorama  and  lights — have  peculiar  advan- 
tages which  we  have  only  begun  to  sense.  But  our 
own  employment  of  the  high-powered  incandescent 
bulb  in  place  of  arc  lights  and  of  rows  of  small  incan- 
descents  has  accomplished  much  for  beauty. 

49 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

For  a  considerable  time  the  battle  was  all  against 
the  footlights.  Even  as  far  back  as  1785  we  may  read 
of  the  sins  of  that  trough  of  brilliance  which  seven- 
teenth century  actors  devised  as  the  only  possible  meth- 
od of  getting  their  weak  candles  and  oil  lamps  near 
enough  to  light  their  faces.  The  footlights  must  be 
abolished :  that  was  about  the  only  recipe  for  bettering 
the  lighting  of  our  stage.  Nobody  who  wrote  of 
the  problem  remembered  the  "footlights  overhead,"  the 
inverted  troughs  of  small  lamps  that  made  ceil- 
ings brighter  than  floors  and  joined  with  the  foots  in 
giving  the  actor's  features  about  the  definition  and  dis- 
tinction of  a  well-filled  bag  of  flour.  Some  were  all 
for  putting  out  the  footlights  and  substituting  "baby" 
spot-lights  and  arcs  projected  from  the  front  of  the 
house.  A  few  pleaded  that  just  a  little  light  from  the 
floor  might  be  needed  to  soften  shadows  from  above  and 
create  a  touch  of  the  diffusion  of  sunlight.  But,  in 
general,  the  footlights  must  go. 

Rather  suddenly  it  was  discovered  that  the  footlights 
of  the  air  were  going  instead.  David  Belasco,  who 
has  been  the  pioneer  of  electrical  progress  in  our  thea- 
tre, had  made  a  production  without  footlights  in  1879 
when  he  staged  Morse's  Passion  Play  in  San  Francisco. 
He  did  without  them  in  several  productions  at  the  old 
Madison  Square  Theatre,  and  he  did  not  use  them, 
according  to  his  own  statement,  in  either  The  Darling 
of  the  Gods  in  1902-03  or  Adrea  in  1904-05.    When 

SO 


THE  ELECTRICIAN 

he  decided  to  eliminate  the  foots  altogether  from  the 
Belasco  theatre  in  the  fall  of  1914,  he  made  a  far 
more  important  contribution  to  stage  lighting  in  the 
devices  he  installed  to  replace  them.  He  hung  a  row 
of  ten  or  a  dozen  large  incandescent  lamps  in  skilful 
hoods  and  reflectors  in  place  of  the  first  or  "concert" 
border  just  behind  the  proscenium  opening,  and  also 
in  a  special  hood  which  he  built  out  still  further  for- 
ward above  the  apron.  These  he  supplemented  with 
"baby  spots"  or  small  movable  lights  with  lenses, 
which  he  first  used,  I  think,  in  Nobody's  Widow  in 
1908-09,  to  follow  the  actors  about  the  stage  unknown 
to  the  audience.  The  large  incandescents  instead  of 
small  border  lights  were  soon  adopted  by  Arthur  Hop- 
kins and  Robert  E.  Jones  and  have  been  used  by  them 
and  an  increasing  number  of  producers  ever  since. 

These  overhead  lamps  threw  a  pool  of  lovely  illu- 
mination upon  the  floor  of  the  stage.  The  light  seemed 
to  come  from  nowhere  in  particular.  It  left  the  ceil- 
ing only  reflected  light,  and  gave  the  walls  of  the  rooms 
a  chance  to  retire  with  becoming  modesty  in  favor  of 
the  actors.  Upon  the  faces  of  the  players  it  wrought 
something  approaching  a  miracle.  It  gave  their  fea- 
tures definition,  it  brought  out  with  sculptural  sharp- 
ness the  natural  contours  and  lines  of  the  face.  And 
the  great  importance  of  this  was  that  the  actor  uses  his 
features  to  express  emotion,  and  that  the  significance  of 
features  moving  in  light  and  shadow  is  far  more  clearly 

5i 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

visible  than  when  a  blank  glare  has  ironed  out  every 
wrinkle  of  the  forehead,  every  twist  of  the  lip,  every 
depth  of  the  eye-sockets.  By  such  lighting,  sculpture 
replaced  the  picture  on  the  American  stage.  The  x-ray 
borders  have  not  entirely  solved  the  problem:  not  of 
lighting  more  naturally  than  from  below,  but  of  light- 
ing so  naturally  that  there  are  shadows  upon  the 
stage.  They  are  often  used  recklessly  and  inartisti- 
cally.  They  need  supplementing  and  toning  down, 
and  here  Belasco  has  shown  an  admirable  example  in 
the  lights  which  he  installed  in  the  front  of  the  balcony 
in  1917.  This  is  happier  than  the  lights  from  over- 
head in  the  auditorium,  with  which  Winthrop  Ames, 
Maude  Adams  and  Joseph  Urban  have  experimented. 
It  is  a  great  improvement  on  the  six  or  eight  hooded 
lights  which  Granville  Barker  placed  along  the  bal- 
cony of  Wallack's  in  19 15  as  a  substitute  for  footlights. 
The  Belasco  battery  is  masked  battery;  hardly  one 
spectator  in  a  hundred  can  or  does  see  them,  for  during 
the  intermissions  they  are  hidden  by  little  doors  that 
swing  open  automatically  when  the  lights  are  to  be 
used. 

Light  coming  from  one  or  two  sources,  casting  soft- 
ened shadows  and  emphasizing  the  actors  instead  of  the 
background  or  the  ceiling,  has  transformed  American 
production.  When  the  settings  are  still  old-fashioned 
and  ugly,  as  in  more  than  half  our  plays,  the  light 
does  a  great  deal  to  bring  dramatic  beauty  into  the 

52 


THE  ELECTRICIAN 

theatre.  There  is  still  much  to  be  done,  however,  in 
solving  problems  of  color  and  particularly  of  supply- 
ing a  better  substitute  for  the  sky.  There  we  may 
learn  something  from  Europe. 

A  few  years  ago  colored  light  was  generally  obtained 
by  dipping  the  small  incandescent  bulbs  in  dye — an 
unsatisfactory  method  because  of  the  uncertain  color 
and  intensity  of  the  dyes  and  the  rapidity  with  which 
they  faded  in  use.    With  the  coming  of  the  larger  in- 
candescents,  the  system  of  filtering  the  white   light 
through  colored  mediums  of  gelatine  or  glass,   em- 
ployed with  spot  lights,  came  into  wider  and  wider  use. 
With  the  lights  overhead,  however,  it  was  manifestly 
impossible  to  change  these  mediums  by  hand.    The 
substitute  was  to  use  three  or  four  times  as  many  light- 
units  as  were  needed,  and  to  place  before  each  a  per- 
manent medium  in  one  of  the  three  desired  colors.     By 
turning  off  some  lamps  and  turning  on  others  colored 
lights  of  various  shades  could  thus  be  obtained.     The 
difficulties  of  this  are  considerable.     Only  very  accu- 
rate and  permanent  primary  colors  will  make  this  sys- 
tem perfect.     Such  colors  are  hard  to  obtain  in  Amer- 
ica, in  spite  of  much  research  by  men  like  Munroe  R. 
Pevear,  of  Boston,  who  has  also  devised,  but  not  yet 
commercialized,  special  lamps  and  lenses  of  consid- 
erable ingenuity. 

The  problem  of  securing  accurate  colors  and  easy 
changes  in  hue,  linked  with  the  problem  of  producing 

53 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

natural  and  diffused  light  from  one  or  two  sources, 
led  to  the  perfection  in  Germany  of  some  extremely 


THE    FORTUNY    SYSTEM 

The  light  from  the  smaller  suspended  boxes  falls  upon  colored  silk 
bands  in  the  larger  boxes  to  the  left  and  is  reflected  back  upon  the  plaster 
sky-dome  in  a  diffused  illumination.  A  stationary  unit  replaces  the  foot- 
lights, and  another  similar  apparatus  is  located  in  a  pit  at  the  base  of 
the  dome. 

ingenious  devices.  They  may  be  generally  classified 
under  the  name  of  the  Fortuny  system  of  lighting, 
though  improvements  in  the  two  elements  of  this  sys- 

54 


THE  ELECTRICIAN 

tern,  the  lights  and  the  background,  have  gone  beyond 
and  to  a  considerable  extent  away  from  Fortuny's 
principles. 

The  ideas  of  this  Venetian  were  worked  out  through 
the  cooperation  of  the  General  Electric  Company  in 
Berlin  during  the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury. They  consist  of  two  elements :  first,  the  source  of 
the  light,  a  unit  which  throws  white  light  upon  col- 
ored silk,  from  which  it  is  reflected  upon  the  stage; 
and,  second,  the  surface  upon  which  this  light  finally 
falls  and  from  which  it  is  again  reflected  and  diffused, 
a  plaster  or  concrete  dome. 

The  lighting  unit  is  simpler  than  it  sounds.  It  is  a 
high-powered  light  encased  in  a  hood  with  only  one 
opening.  This  opening  is  away  from  the  stage  and 
toward  a  frame  in  which  are  held  five  bands  of  col- 
ored silk  turning  on  rollers.  These  bands  are  of  white, 
black,  and  the  three  primary  colors.  The  edges  of 
the  various  bands  of  silk  are  forked  to  produce  a  sort 
of  mixing  of  colors  when  one  is  superimposed  on  an- 
other. The  bands  move  freely  by  means  of  a  motor 
controlled  from  a  central  station.  The  white  light 
from  the  lamp  may  fall  upon  any  of  the  three  pri- 
maries or  all  of  them.  If  it  falls  only  on  the  blue  it 
is  reflected  out  in  a  diffused  stream  of  blue.  If  it  falls 
on  all  three  colors,  the  mixture  produces  true  white 
light  again.  Whatever  color  of  light  is  produced  by 
the  primary  bands  either  singly  or  in  combination, 

55 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

can  be  darkened  or  paled  by  drawing  either  the  black 
or  the  white  band  partially  across. 

Actual  practice  has  considerably  modified  this 
lighting  unit.  The  quality  of  diffused  light  is  very 
fine,  but  it  can  only  be  produced  by  the  use  of  far  more 
current  than  would  be  necessary  for  direct  lighting. 
Also  the  heat  of  the  light  deteriorates  the  silk  unless 
an  elaborate  and  expensive  fan  system  is  also  combined 
with  the  light — which  means  still  more  current.  At 
the  close  of  the  war  such  considerations  as  these  led 
the  General  Electric  Company  to  experiment  with  ap- 
plying the  principle  of  the  traveling  bands  to  color 
filters  or  mediums.  They  hav&  accordingly  produced  a 
modification  of  the  Fortuny  system  which  consists  of 
placing  an  incandescent  lamp  behind  the  bands  (which 
are,  of  course,  of  a  more  transparent  material)  and  per- 
mitting the  light,  colored  by  the  bands,  to  pass  directly 
to  the  stage.  Either  style  of  unit  is  placed  relatively 
where  our  border  lights  ordinarily  hang,  in  batteries 
of  three  or  more  lamps.  Reinhardt  in  adapting  the 
Fortuny  system  to  his  Deutsches  Theater,  substituted 
a  great  lantern  of  many  colored  panes,  all  or  any  of 
which  could  be  lighted  or  dimmed  at  will. 

Now  for  the  dome,  or  Kuppelhorizont,  as  it  is  called 
in  Germany.  With  Fortuny  this  was  to  be  of  silk, 
stretched  taut  and  smooth  by  exhausting  the  air  from 
the  space  between  two  surfaces.  Such  a  dome  was 
light,  of  course,  and  easily  carried  about  from  one 

56 


THE  ELECTRICIAN 

theatre  to  another,  but  it  could  be  punctured  and  it 
would  deteriorate.     German   ingenuity  substituted  a 


A    MODERN    GERMAN    THEATRE 

Plan  of  the  Volksbuhne  in  Berlin,  designed 
by  Oskar  Kaufmann,  showing  the  relation  of 
revolving  stage  and  sky-dome. 

plaster  or  concrete  dome  instead.  In  some  theatres — 
as  it  is  installed  in  the  Neighborhood  Playhouse  in 
New  York's  East  Side  and  in  the  Beechwood  Theatre  in 

57 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Scarborough,  N.  Y. — it  becomes  merely  a  plaster 
wall,  straight  up  and  down  and  curving  very  slightly 
at  the  ends.  In  Earl  Carroll's  Theatre,  now  building 
in  New  York,  the  rear  and  side  walls  of  the  stage  will 
be  plastered  and  curved  into  one  another.  In  other 
theatres  the  sky  is  in  a  semi-circle  like  a  section  of  a 
hollow  cylinder  or  like  an  ordinary  canvas  cyclorama 
made  of  plaster.  Properly  it  is  a  true  dome,  or  rather 
half  dome,  like  a  quarter  of  an  orange  skin,  curving 
round  almost  from  one  side  of  the  proscenium  to  the 
other,  and  from  the  back  of  the  stage  up  above  the  top 
of  the  proscenium  opening.  The  true  dome  appears 
in  the  theatre  of  the  Provincetown  Players  and  in  the 
Blythelea  theatre  in  Orange,  N.  J. 

Fortuny  would  foreswear  any  but  the  true  dome, 
since  only  such  a  dome,  he  claims,  is  the  perfect  surface 
for  his  diffused  light  to  play  upon,  only  such  a  sur- 
face can  simulate  the  depths  of  the  heavens.  What- 
ever Fortuny's  feelings  may  be,  a  flat  plaster  sky  is  bet- 
ter than  a  canvas  sky.  It  has  no  wrinkles.  It  does  not 
stir  if  a  door  is  opened  on  the  street.  Its  granular  sur- 
face catches  light  and  breaks  it  up  into  a  livelier  and 
more  diffused  medium.  All  that  may  be  said  for  a 
flat  plaster  wall  or  for  a  wall  curving  in  one  direction 
may  be  said,  of  course,  with  far  more  vigor  for  a  dome 
curving  in  all  directions.  On  such  a  surface,  light, 
whether  direct  or  reflected,  plays  marvelously.  The 
small  dome  at  the  theatre  of  the  Provincetown  Play- 

58 


THE  ELECTRICIAN 

ers  near  Washington  Square,  New  York,  even  the  min- 
iature dome  of  compot  board  installed  by  Urban  in 
Ziegfeld's  Midnight  Frolic  on  top  of  the  New  Amster- 
dam Theatre,  demonstrates  the  startling  qualities  of 
the  Kuppelhorizont.  It  is  almost  literally  impossible 
for  the  eye  to  focus  upon  the  surface  of  the  plaster, 
to  detect  the  actual  depth  of  the  sky.  To  all  intents, 
the  distance  is  infinite.  And  it  is  alive,  it  is  luminous 
with  light. 

An  incidental  virtue  of  the  plaster  dome  is  that  it 
does  away  with  borders  or  devices  for  hiding  the  "flies" 
from  the  view  of  the  spectators  in  the  front  rows. 
Curving  up  above  the  line  of  vision,  it  presents  the  sky 
to  view  at  every  point.  The  same  result  can  be  ob- 
tained by  a  much  higher  cyclorama,  or  by  a  lower 
proscenium  opening.  Both  the  high  cyclorama  and 
the  low  opening  have  been  extensively  used  in  America 
during  the  past  six  years  to  do  away  with  borders. 

The  dome,  then,  with  or  without  Fortuny's  reflected 
lighting,  produces  the  most  perfect  semblance  of  the 
sky  that  is  possible  in  the  playhouse.  Its  virtue  is  not, 
however,  mere  realism.  It  happens  that  the  sky  is 
itself  a  splendid  background  for  any  imaginative  or  ab- 
stract setting,  while  the  dome,  being  white,  can  be 
lighted  in  any  color  desired.  In  this  structure  the  mod- 
ern artist  has,  therefore,  a  medium  of  great  responsive- 
ness and  beauty  for  whatever  purpose  he  may  elect. 

The  dome  has,  of  course,  its  practical  disadvantages. 

59 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Its  initial  cost  is  large.  It  cannot  be  used  with  a 
sliding  stage,  since  its  ends  come  practically  up  to  the 
proscenium.  Its  top  interferes  with  the  gridiron,  pre- 
venting the  use  of  the  rear  portion  in  "flying"  or  hoist- 
ing drops  and  back  walls;  this  is  hardly  so  serious  as 
might  be  supposed,  since  the  dome  itself,  supplemented 
by  "profiles"  or  set  pieces,  does  away  with  ordinary 
drops.  The  dome  works  ideally  with  a  revolving 
stage,  with  wagon  stages  or  with  a  sinking  stage.  Sev- 
eral modifications  have  been  introduced  to  enable  ac- 
tors and  scenery  to  reach  the  stage  without  having  to 
come  forward  around  the  ends  of  the  dome.  Some 
domes  have  a  pit  in  front  of  their  lower  edge,  which 
also  permits  of  better  lighting  effects ;  some  are  raised 
a  few  feet  off  the  floor;  some  are  pivoted  at  their  front 
lower  corners  and  tipped  up  so  that  scenery  may  be 
dragged  under  the  back.  The  dome  is  in  very  wide 
use  throughout  Germany  and  Austria,  but  it  will  have 
difficulty  in  invading  the  American  commercial  thea- 
tre so  long  as  the  touring  system  continues  and  scenery 
has  to  be  built  to  fit  any  stage.  The  gradual  but  evi- 
dent decay  of  the  touring  system  puts  the  day  of  many 
such  improvements  not  far  off. 

A  new  system  of  background  and  lights,  destined 
perhaps  to  succeed  where  the  Fortuny  system  either 
failed  or  had  to  be  extensively  modified,  has  been  per- 
fected since  the  armistice  and  put  on  the  market  by 
a  Swedish  company,  the  Aktiebolaget  Regi  och  Scen- 

60 


THE  ELECTRICIAN 

teknik,  working  in  association  with  German  experts. 
The  devices  employed  are  referred  to  as  the  Ars  sys- 
tem and  consist  of  many  ingenious  lights  added  to  a 
cyclorama  for  which  even  greater  virtues  are  claimed 
than  for  the  dome. 

The  cyclorama  is  of  cloth,  so  prepared  that  it  re- 
fracts the  light  in  the  same  way  as  plaster  and  so 
weighted  that  it  cannot  wrinkle  or  stir.  Furthermore, 
it  is  not  a  permanent  obstruction  to  the  use  of  the  full 
stage.  When  not  employed  it  remains  on  a  vertical 
roller  at  one  side  of  the  proscenium.  In  thirty  sec- 
onds it  can  be  drawn  out  and  around  the  back  of  the 
stage,  hanging  from  a  semi-circular  track  below  the 
gridiron.  This  track  itself  folds  out  of  the  way  when 
the  use  of  the  entire  width  or  depth  of  the  gridiron  is 
desired. 

To  light  this  surface  and  the  stage  floor  the  Ars  com- 
pany has  worked  out  a  complicated  battery  of  lamps 
all  controlled  from  a  single  switchboard  by  the 
prompter's  box.  The  most  interesting  of  these  lights 
are  for  projecting  designs,  shapes  or  photographs  on 
the  cyclorama.  One  system  of  lights,  composed  of 
sixteen  projectors  with  lamps  of  7,000  candlepower 
each,  is  arranged  in  two  stories  about  a  circular  axis. 
The  eight  lamps  above  and  the  eight  below  can  turn 
at  different  speeds  and  move  their  lenses  upward  and 
downward  at  will,  while  projecting  on  the  cyclorama 
photographs  or  drawings  of  clouds  printed  on  positive 

61 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

colored  film.  This  device  is,  of  course,  a  purely  me- 
chanical trick  for  producing  a  realistic  sky;  it  is  only 
in  an  adaptation  to  other  purposes  that  it  can  take  on 
the  qualities  which  reside  in  the  work  of  the  artist. 

Such  an  adaptation  has  been  made.  Beneath  the 
cloud  machine  and  close  to  the  lamps  that  throw  any 
desired  shade  of  light  upon  the  cyclorama  hang  three 
projectors  similar  to  those  in  the  cloud  machine.  With 
these  the  producer  can  throw  upon  the  cyclorama  any 
design  in  color  created  by  the  artist;  thus  he  literally 
paints  his  scenery  with  light.  The  inventors  have  also 
been  working  upon  a  flexible  wall  made  of  strings 
of  pearl-like  beads,  which  can  be  given  any  shape  of 
interior  or  exterior  for  the  projectors  to  play  upon. 
When  this  is  worked  out,  the  Ars  company  will  have 
evolved  a  sceneryless  stage.  The  designs  of  the  artist 
will  be  transferred  to  colored  film  and  thrown  upon 
the  permanent  background.  These  devices  have  been 
installed  in  the  Royal  Opera  in  Stockholm,  the  State 
Opera  in  Dresden  and  La  Scala  in  Milan.  When  and 
if  they  are  widely  installed  the  film  designs  of  any 
artist  may  be  duplicated  and  distributed  to  a  dozen 
theatres  at  a  comparatively  small  cost. 

Without  a  dome,  or  an  Ars  cyclorama,  the  problem 
of  a  sky  becomes  immensely  difficult  for  the  artist. 
He  can  certainly  not  achieve  illusion  with  any  dyed 
drop  or  any  painted  canvas.  The  best  he  can  do  is  to 
produce  a  sane  conventionalization  by  applying  his 

6z 


THE  ELECTRICIAN 

color  by  the  method  known  as  pointilage,  a  method 
which  Urban  introduced  here  during  his  work  at  the 
Boston  Opera  House  and  which  has  since  invaded  all 
the  scenic  studios,  even  the  most  old-fashioned,  and 
has  been  applied  to  every  painted  surface  on  the  stage. 
Pointilage  is  simply  the  method  of  the  impressionist 
painter,  broken  color.  Instead  of  mixing  his  blue  for 
the  sky  and  applying  it  as  a  flat  tint  Urban  and  his 
followers  place  directly  on  the  canvas  the  various 
shades  of  blue,  green  and  yellow  which  may  go  into 
the  mixture.  The  canvas  is  "primed"  with  the  more 
common  color;  the  others  are  applied  in  a  sort  of  stip- 
ple over  the  surface.  There  are  two  advantages  in 
pointilage  when  applied  either  to  the  sky-drop  or  to 
an  ordinary  surface  such  as  a  wall.  First,  it  hides  the 
character  of  the  canvas.  The  eye  is  caught  by  the 
irregularities  of  the  color — small  as  they  are  at  a  dis- 
tance— instead  of  by  the  warped,  wrinkled,  creased 
or  bulging  surface  of  the  canvas.  Walls  seem  solid, 
skies  have  less  suggestion  of  canvas  about  them.  Sec- 
ond, the  color  becomes  livelier;  the  light  that  strikes 
these  surfaces  more  intense.  Any  change  in  the  color 
of  the  illuminant  registers  more  directly  and  more  ef- 
fectively on  the  various  tiny  dabs  of  paint.  The  im- 
pressionists adopted  broken  color  in  their  attempt  to 
produce  the  living  light  of  day  instead  of  the  north 
light  of  a  studio.  Broken  color  serves  the  artist  of 
the  theatre  in  the  same  fashion. 

63 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Such  problems  and  such  solutions,  whether  mechani- 
cal or  electrical,  may  mean  nothing  if  the  stage  artist 
or  the  director  has  no  sense  of  beauty  or  of  drama  in 
his  design  or  in  the  movement  of  his  people.  But  by 
their  aid  the  artist  and  the  director  are  able  to  achieve 
effects  far  beyond  the  range  of  the  nineteenth  century 
theatre. 


64 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  PAINTER. 

THE  mechanician  has  contributed  to  the  new 
art  of  the  theatre  a  more  serviceable  stage ;  the 
electrician,  a  more  flexible  and  sculptural 
light.  They  gave  these  things  to  the  older  theatre,  as 
well,  the  theatre  of  realism.  Yet  the  revolving  stage 
and  overhead  lighting  did  not  make  the  realistic  the- 
atre any  less  realistic;  rather,  they  gave  it  a  more  illu- 
sive realism.  It  was  the  artist  that  turned  these  gifts 
to  other  purposes,  to  the  purposes  of  spirit  and  imagi- 
nation, to  the  purposes  which  have  dominated  the  new 
art  of  the  theatre. 

There  is,  however,  a  type  of  artist  in  the  newer  thea- 
tre who  might  have  gone  with  the  mechanician  and  the 
electrician  into  the  older  theatre,  who  would  have 
brought  more  beauty  there,  but  who  would  not  have 
brought  more  illusion.  For  he  would  have  worked  in 
the  older  theatre,  as  he  has  worked  in  the  newer,  with 
materials  and  conventions  at  heart  as  much  opposed 
to  realism  as  they  are  to  the  spirit  of  the  newer  theatre. 
This  type  of  artist  I  shall  call  the  painter,  because  his 

65 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

devotion  is  to  the  easel,  to  the  flat  canvas,  whether  he 
works  in  the  theatre  or  in  his  studio.  The  most  strike 
ing  figure  of  this  sort  is  Leon  Bakst,  but  you  will  find 
artists  using  his  method  through  all  the  Russian  theatre 
where,  indeed,  the  artist  thus  worked  as  far  back  as 
1902. 

This  paradox — the  presence  of  artists  in  the  new 
movement  whose  methods  are  fundamentally  better 
fitted  to  the  theatre  of  the  past,  and  yet  to  realism  no 
more  than  to  imagination — can  be  explained  only 
through  an  understanding  of  the  dual  nature  of  the 
theatre  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  of  the  power  of 
pure  design  and  color  in  any  theatre,  old  or  new.  Such 
an  understanding  may  make  us  see  a  little  of  the  grad- 
ual, almost  unnoticeable  process  by  which  one  move- 
ment in  the  theatre  passes  over  into  another. 

We  speak  of  the  realistic  theatre  as  if  that  were  all 
that  we  knew  between  the  theatre  of  Shakespeare  and 
the  theatre  of  the  new  stagecraft.  Yet  before  the  real- 
istic theatre  and  several  centuries  after  Shakespeare 
and  his  bear  pit,  there  was  a  third  theatre.  It  was  a 
theatre  of  pretense  and  extravagance,  of  theatricalism 
in  the  worse  sense.  It  was  the  dead-alive  theatre  of 
Victorianism,  the  theatre  where  the  meagre  materials 
of  backdrop,  side  walls,  wings  and  borders  were  used 
as  canvases  for  the  smearing  of  bad  color  and  worse 
perspective  in  a  "play-actory"  pretense  at  an  ostenta- 
tious reality.    The  thing  was  never  realism.     It  was 

66 


5   M 


■g   | 


o  E 


i". : . 


THE  PAINTER 

never  imagination.     It  was  merely  a  routine,  rule-of- 
thumb  fake. 

Many  men,  in  and  out  of  the  "free  theatres"  of  the 
later  nineteenth  century,  set  themselves  to  destroy  this 
thing.  They  were  typified  in  Germany  by  Otto 
Brahm;  in  America,  by  David  Belasco.  They  pro- 
duced actuality;  it  was  this  light  that  Reinhardt  and 
Stanislavsky  first  followed,  and  many  workers  in  the 
new  stagecraft  have  got  little  farther  than  adding 
beauty  to  this  actuality.  These  men  made  actual  rooms 
and  plausible  exteriors.  The  great  mass  of  engineer- 
ing mechanism,  new  stages,  new  skies  and  new  lights, 
which  have  served  the  new  stagecraft  so  finely,  helped 
also  in  getting  rid  of  the  old  fake  and  in  putting  real- 
ism in  its  place.  The  two-dimensional  perspective  of 
the  easel  painter  was  first  banished  from  the  three- 
dimensional  theatre  by  the  realists. 

Esthetics  like  life,  do  not  come  in  water-tight  com- 
rtments.  There  is  evolution.  Now  it  is  quite  pos- 
&  Je  to  argue  that  the  old  theatricalism  was  always 
striving  to  be  real,  and  that  hard,  intelligent  work 
pushed  it  over  into  naturalism.  Certainly  realism,  as 
Reinhardt  and  Stanislavsky  practiced  it,  drifted  over 
into  the  high  expressiveness  of  the  new  art.  There 
was  a  time  when  Reinhardt  produced  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  in  a  forest  of  real  papier-mache  trees. 
Stanislavsky  made  a  Gorky  of  utter  and  gutter  reality. 
But  they  had  only  to  try  to  add  beauty  and  meaning 

67 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

to  their  productions  in  order  to  be  forced,  like  all  the 
great  artists  of  the  world,  into  a  refinement,  a  selection 
and  an  interpretation  which  is  best  expressed  through 
the  rather  awkward  term  abstraction.  The  old  theatre 
of  theatricalism  had  tried  to  reach  a  vivid  and  pictur- 
esque reality  through  certain  rule-of-thumb  conven- 
tions which  cabined,  cribbed,  confined  and  defeated 
the  purpose.  The  newer  theatre  tries  to  reach  beauty 
and  meaning,  to  win  to  a  vivid  expressiveness  of  the 
play,  through  spiritual  abstractions.  In  the  old  days, 
stretched  canvas,  painted  with  pictures  of  leaves  and 
branches,  tried  to  look  like  a  forest.  In  the  days  of 
realism,  actual,  modeled,  three-dimensional  forms  of 
trees  did  indeed  look  not  unlike  an  inferior  sort  of 
forest.  In  the  third  period,  however,  that  same  can- 
vas of  the  old  days,  treated  frankly  as  cloth,  and  either 
hung  in  loose  tree-like  shapes  or  painted  with  symbols 
of  nature  and  draped  like  the  curtain  it  actually  is,  be- 
comes an  abstraction  of  a  forest,  full  of  all  the 
suggestive  beauty  of  which  the  artist  in  colors,  shapes, 
and  lights  is  capable. 

In  spite  of  the  natural  process  of  development  which 
may  be  traced  from  theatricalism  to  realism  and  from 
realism  to  the  abstract  art  of  the  new  stagecraft,  I  think 
there  is  an  essential  break  to  be  detected  between  the 
stiff  and  limited  art  of  the  past  and  the  new  art  which  is 
promising  a  greater  break  with  the  physical  theatre 
itself. 

68 


From  The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine 


BORIS    CODUXOKK — DESIGN"     BY    GOI.OVIN 

The  square  before  the  cathedrals  in  the  first  act  of  the  opera  as  staged  at  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  and  in  Russia.  The  whole  gleaming  facade  of  the 
churches  is  painted  on  the  backdrop. 


THE  PAINTER 

The  painter  of  whom  I  write  has  allied  himself 
definitely  with  the  new  scenic  movement,  yet  by  his 
methods  he  might  better  be  working  in  the  theatre 
of  the  nineteenth  century  that  knew  not  Brahm  nor 
Belasco.  Bakst  and  the  other  scenic  designers  of  the 
Ballets  Russes  and  of  the  Russian  theatre,  Golovin, 
Roerich,  Korovin,  Yegoroff,  Anisfeld,  Benois,  almost 
always  apply  their  talents  for  line,  color  and  inter- 
pretative atmosphere  to  what  is  essentially  the  theatre 
of  Garrick  and  Kean  so  far  as  technical  method  goes. 
They  are  content  with  the  old  mechanics  of  theatrical- 
ism.  They  take  the  great  flat  canvas  backdrops  and 
the  tall  side-wings  of  other  days,  and  they  place  upon 
these  crude  and  limited  surfaces  their  brilliant  and 
provocative  art.  As  they  paint  it,  the  backdrop  car- 
ries at  least  two  walls  of  any  interior,  and  whole  miles 
of  distant  landscape.  In  Scheherazade,  as  produced 
by  the  Ballets  Russes,  Bakst  paints  columns,  walls  and 
ceiling  draperies  upon  his  backdrop.  In  Les  Syl- 
phides  Benois  thus  visualizes  a  whole  palace  garden. 
In  The  Fire  Bird  Golovin  rears  a  towering  castle  on 
flat  canvas.  This  is  not  alone  due  to  the  desire  of  the 
ballet-masters  of  Diagileff  to  keep  clear  as  large  a 
dancing  floor  as  possible,  with  free  access  from  the 
sides.  The  same  handling  of  the  backdrops,  the  same 
recourse  to  perspective  is  to  be  found  in  Golovin's 
extraordinarily  fine  production  of  Boris  Godunoff  at 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  New  York.     He  puts 

69 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

the  front  of  the  Cathedral  of  the  Assumption  and  of  the 
Archangels  on  his  backdrop;  he  paints  a  staircase, 
both  rear  walls  of  a  room  and  a  little  of  the  ceiling 
upon  the  gigantic  canvas  of  his  easel-theatre.  Yego- 
roff  is  as  frankly  old-fashioned  in  the  mechanics  of 
his  Blue  Bird  for  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre. 

How  then  is  such  work  a  part  of  the  new  stagecraft? 
Partially,  perhaps,  because  of  the  way  in  which  the 
painter  uses  his  perspective — taboo  as  it  is  among  other 
artists  of  the  new  movement — but  principally  because 
of  his  fidelity  to  the  inner  emotion  of  the  plays  and 
ballets  he  decorates,  and  the  vigor  with  which  his  line 
and  his  color  express  their  atmosphere. 

The  painter  such  as  Bakst  accepts  the  old  conven- 
tions of  the  Victorian  theatre  against  which  Gordon 
Craig  and  practically  all  the  theorists  of  the  new  stage- 
craft have  inveighed  most  violently;  but  he  sublimates 
these  conventions  by  his  bold  handling  of  them.  He 
still  paints  perspectives  on  the  backdrop,  but  he  does 
not  try  to  use  them  to  deceive.  He  exaggerates  to  the 
point  where  they  are  at  last  frank  and  honest  conven- 
tions, not  pretenses  at  something  else.  He  flings  out 
walls,  rafters,  columns  and  stairs  with  such  sweep  and 
verve  that  they  take  on  a  spiritual  life  which  triumphs 
over  technical  limitations.  These  backdrops  arrest 
and  fascinate,  not  because  they  suggest  reality,  but  be- 
cause they  are  instinct  with  the  creative  force  of  a 
great  artist.    Their  weakness,  it  seems  to  me,  is  that, 

70 


THE  PAINTER 

by  remaining  flat  backdrops  which  once  pretended  at 
reality,  they  remain  a  link  with  a  false  past.  If  these 
gigantic  canvases  were  treated  frankly  as  mere  dec- 
orations and  were  hung  in  curtain-like  folds,  as  Ar- 
thur Rutherston  hung  his  backgrounds  for  the  forest 
scene  of  Androcles  and  the  Lion,  and  Norman  Wil- 
kinson many  of  his  scenes  in  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  they  could  keep  all  their  virtues  of  vig- 
orous design  and  yet  escape  the  implications  of  the 
old-fashioned  theatre. 

That  the  designs  of  these  painters  are  essentially  a 
part  of  the  new  movement  is  not  alone  because  they 
use  perspective  unrealistically.  Back  of  this  mere 
technicality  are  both  a  purpose  and  an  execution  true 
to  the  ideals  of  the  newer  theatre.  They  do  not  merely 
exaggerate  perspective,  they  exaggerate  perspective  in 
such  a  way  as  to  convey  an  emotional  sense  of  the 
play's  or  the  ballet's  meaning.  In  Thamar,  for  in- 
stance, that  pantomime  of  the  savage  mountain  queen 
who  lures  travellers  to  their  death  in  her  arms,  the 
amazing  delta  of  her  towering  walls  carries  an  oppres- 
sive sense  of  her  remote  and  mountainous  power,  of 
her  hard  and  rocklike  cruelty,  almost  a  symbol  of  her 
passion. 

Similarly  and  perhaps  more  obviously  the  colors 
that  these  painters  use  dramatize  the  emotions  of  the 
actors.  When  Bakst  first  set  Scheherazade  his  design 
was  lively  with  the  yellows  of  the  orient,  but  to  con- 

71 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

vey  more  closely  the  passions  of  this  story  of  debauch- 
ery between  the  women  of  the  sultan's  harem  and  his 
negro  slaves,  Bakst  reworked  the  same  design  in  lustful 
greens  cut  by  three  turgid  red  pillars.  In  the  smoul- 
dering browns  and  dusky  reds  of  the  tents  and  plains 
of   Prince   Igor   Roerich   conveyed   the   earthy   and 


COSTUMES  BY  BAKST 


primal  vigor  of  these  fiery  people  of  the  steppes. 
Nicolas  Roerich,  who  like  Boris  Anisfeld,  has  now 
made  his  home  in  America  and  who  is  designing  set- 
tings for  the  Chicago  Opera  Company,  is  perhaps  the 
most  conscious  employer  of  color  as  an  expression  of 
emotion.  Each  of  his  scenes  has  a  color-key  as  defi- 
nite in  its  dramatic  appropriateness  as  the  musical 
color  of  the  composer.  In  his  forthcoming  produc- 
tion of  Tristan  und  Isolde  for  the  Chicago  Opera  Com- 

72 


THE  PAINTER 

pany  you  will  find  both  the  color  of  Mark  and  the 
color  of  the  lovers  upon  the  stage  in  the  second  act. 
By  dividing  his  proscenium  with  a  thin  column  into 
two  arched  openings  Roerich  is  able  to  show  you  in 
one  the  sombre  purples  of  the  frowning  castle,  and 
in  the  other  the  amorous  moonlit  greens  of  the  lands- 
cape and  garden  that  lie  before  it. 

Finally,  there  is  the  selection  of  pictorial  objects  and 
their  arrangement  to  convey  in  another  way  the  at- 
mosphere of  story,  music  or  dance.  Recall  for  a  mo- 
ment the  scene  of  encampment  in  Prince  Igor  and  the 
round  and  hutlike  tents  of  the  tribesmen  rising  out  of 
the  soil  like  the  great  breasts  of  some  earth  mother  to 
nourish  the  beginnings  of  the  rude  race  of  men.  Or, 
in  YegorofTs  Land  of  Memory  in  The  Blue  Bird  at 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  the  overhanging  trees  above 
the  little  cottage,  standing  in  silhouette  like  the  calmly 
sorrowing  figures  of  past  generations.  Or,  in  the  scene 
before  the  cathedrals  in  Golovin's  production  of  Boris 
Godunoff,  the  towering  white  grandeur  of  the  churches 
and  the  sweep  of  the  red  sacramental  carpet  made  by 
the  priestly  procession  in  the  square  at  their  feet. 

Of  the  painters  who  have  brought  their  talents  al- 
most unchanged  from  another  field  and  given  them  as 
they  stood  to  the  new  art,  Bakst  had  been  the  only  name 
known  widely  to  the  theatregoer.  He  has  designed 
the  great  bulk  of  the  productions  of  the  Ballets  Russes, 
and  his  color,  his  line,  and  particularly  his  vigorous 

73 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOiMORROW 

aqd  daring  costumes  have  drawn  our  attention  from 
men  who  seem  to  me  greater  artists,  in  the  theatre  or 
out  of  it.  Golovin  I  feel  to  be  Bakst's  superior; 
Roerich,  too,  though  he  has  shown  less  in  our  theatre. 
Roerich's  genius  lies  in  a  sort  of  primitive  mysticism. 
He  is  priest  and  poet  of  old,  bare  and  barbarous  Rus- 
sia. Golovin — like  Korovin,  another  of  the  Russian 
painters,  who  has  worked  with  Meyerhold,  though  not 
with  the  Diagileff  Ballets  Russes — emphasizes  less  the 
primitive,  though  he  draws  his  strength  also  from  the 
racial  simplicity  of  the  Slavic  peoples.  From  Bakst 
he  stands  out  sharply,  as  sharply  as  Michelangelo 
from  Botticelli.  Golovin's  color  is  original,  but  it  is 
not  obviously  vivid  or  flauntingly  bright.  He  does 
not  pile  up  great  heaps  of  vermillion,  against  the  pea- 
cock blues  and  metallic  greens  that  delight  Bakst.  His 
superiority  lies  in  vigor,  in  wholesome  power.  The 
pungency  of  the  earth  is  in  his  color,  the  majesty  of 
the  earth  in  his  handling  of  it. 

Seen  in  the  large  the  Russians  have  brought  the  vir- 
tues of  the  painter,  the  great  painter,  into  the  theatre. 
They  have  brought  great  ability  to  replace  the  medi- 
ocre talents  of  the  little  men  who  turn  out  scenery  in 
our  commercial  scenic  studios.  They  might  have  given 
these  things  to  the  theatre  of  1880,  for  they  have  de- 
manded nothing  of  the  stage  that  the  stage  did  not 
boast  in  those  days.  But  they  have  each  an  individual 
genius  of  such  power  that  had  their  work  appeared  in 

74 


THE  PAINTER 

the  theatre  of  those  days  it  would  inevitably  have  upset 
current  conceptions  of  the  possibilities  of  scenic  de- 
sign; they  would  have  drawn  forth  the  labors  of  Appia 
and  Craig  years  earlier.  It  was  only  necessary  that 
the  painter  at  work  upon  the  stage  should  add  to  his 
genius  such  a  creative  study  of  the  possibilities  of  the 
stage  as  he  had  made  of  the  possibilities  of  his  canvas. 
This  study  would  have  carried  him  away  from  the  old 
mechanism  of  pointed  backdrops.  He  would  have 
seen  and  recognized  the  three-dimensional  and  plastic 
nature  of  this  place  where  human  beings  walk,  run, 
leap  and  meet  in  spiritual  as  well  as  physical  conflict. 
It  was  the  distinction  of  Appia  and  Craig  that  they  so 
studied  the  stage  and  recognized  its  possibilities. 

In  one  sense  the  painter  pure  and  simple  has  always 
had  his  place  in  the  playhouse,  and  has  always  had 
something  to  contribute.  Add  the  painter  to  any  pro- 
duction, and  you  add  a  definite  something  of  beauty 
and  even  greater  potentialities  of  expressiveness.  Add 
an  entrepreneur  such  as  Sergei  DiagilefF,  founder  of 
the  Ballets  Russes  and  the  direction  such  as  Fokin's, 
Nijinski's,  and  Massin's,  and  you  have  an  art  of  music, 
story,  color,  above  all  rhythm,  which  need  worry  little 
about  perspective,  revolving  stages  or  old-fashioned 
foots  and  borders.  The  Ballet  Russe  has  ignored  the 
technical  possibilities  of  stage  design  which  the  past 
twenty-five  years  have  developed.  But  it  has  always 
called  to  its  assistance  the  greatest  of  artistic  talent;  it 

75 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

has  done  more  in  the  field  of  direction,  in  the  climac- 
teric handling  of  color  and  movement  in  its  dancers, 
than  any  other  institution;  and  in  bringing  Matisse, 
Picasso  and  Derain  into  the  theatre  it  has  kept  more 
than  ahead  of  the  philosophic  and  spiritual  progress 
of  the  new  stagecraft. 

Yet  in  the  face  of  the  brilliant  achievements  of  the 
Russians  the  fact  still  remains  that  the  painter  alone 
is  not  the  heart  of  the  new  stagecraft.  The  heart  is 
the  creative  and  directing  genius  who  may  and  who 
should  be  an  artist  able  to  express  himself  in  line  and 
color,  and  able  above  all  to  study  anew  the  problem  of 
the  theatre  and  to  strike  out  both  technically  and  spirit- 
ually towards  new  solutions. 


76 


CHAPTER  V. 

APPIA— THE  LIGHT  AS  DRAMATIST. 

IF  we  seek  for  the  conscious  and  constructive  begin- 
nings of  the  new  art  of  the  theatre  we  must  seek 
for  them  in  a  book  about  opera.  If  we  wish  to 
find  the  first  printed  record  of  original  thought  on  the 
stage  as  a  three-dimensional  fabric  capable  of  creating 
ecstatic  spiritual  illusion  we  must  read  Die  Musik  und 
die  Inscenierung,  written  by  Adolphe  Appia,  a  retir- 
ing and  little-known  Italian-Swiss,  and  published  in  a 
German  translation  in  1899. 

In  the  future  there  may  develop  much  controversy 
over  the  positions  of  Adolphe  Appia  and  Gordon 
Craig  in  the  history  of  the  new  stagecraft.  The  facts 
are  simple  but  relatively  unimportant:  Appia  printed 
his  first  book  of  theory  in  French  in  1893.  He  drew 
some  of  his  most  famous  designs  for  Wagnerian  settings 
in  1895  and  1896.  He  published  his  elaborate  study 
of  the  art  of  the  theatre  as  related  to  Wagner's  operas 
in  1899.  Craig,  who  began  as  an  actor,  left  Irving's 
company  in  1896  to  study  stage  management.  He 
made  his  first  productions  in  London  about  1900.  His 
first  exhibition  of  designs  was  in  1902.  His  first  pub- 
lished writings  appeared  in  1905. 

77 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

The  important  question  rather  is  what  impact  the 
ideas  of  the  two  men  had  on  the  stage.  Today,  after 
twenty  years,  less  is  known  and  less  has  been  exactly 
written  about  Appia  and  his  ideas  than  about  any  other 
major  factor  in  the  regeneration  of  our  theatre.  Every- 
one knows  Craig,  for  Craig's  temperament  was  its  own 
press  agent.  When  he  succeeded  in  making  pro- 
ductions his  fame  was  spread;  when  he  failed  to  agree 
with  the  producers  who  called  him  into  their  theatres 
he  grew  perhaps  more  famous  through  controversy. 
There  were  always  his  fixed  exhibitions  and  his  short, 
easy  and  provocative  essays;  unlike  Appia  he  cared  no 
more  than  his  readers  for  philosophic  dialects.  Ex- 
cept for  a  few  German  producers  and  critics  there  are 
not  many  who  know  just  how  much  the  modern  theatre 
owes  to  Appia,  the  pioneer.  Because  so  few  now  know 
the  exact  nature  and  extent  of  his  theories,  it  may  be 
justly  argued  that  few  knew  them  in  1900;  while 
within  a  few  years  everyone  knew  Craig.  The  ques- 
tion of  whether  Appia  or  Craig  was  the  originator  of 
the  new  theatrical  movement  is  a  perplexed  and  prof- 
itless question.  I  believe  myself  that  they  were  merely 
two  answering  parts  in  a  complex  of  nervous  forces 
which  were  played  upon  by  a  new  creative  Zeitgeist  in 
the  years  from  1895  to  1905.  Appia  answered  a  little 
the  more  quickly,  that  is  all. 

No  one  has  translated  Appia  into  English;  almost 
no  one  reads  him.     He  is  too  solid,  too  difficult,  too 

78 


APPIA— THE  LIGHT  AS  DRAMATIST 

thorough.  Yet  his  little-known  theories  strike  to  the 
heart  of  the  stage-problem.  By  the  divine  accident  of 
which  we  witness  another  example  in  Craig,  he  hap- 
pened to  be  a  remarkably  fine  designer;  yet  if  he  had 
never  illustrated  his  theories  in  brilliant  sketches  his 
position  would  still  be  unique.  He  anticipates,  he 
overshadows.  Alone  and  mysterious,  a  myth,  a  Titan, 
he  presaged  a  revolution  in  thought  about  the  theatre. 
And  curiously  enough  he  wrote  only  of  the  problem  of 
production  as  it  applies  to  the  music-dramas  of  Rich- 
ard Wagner. 

Among  the  theorists  and  practitioners  of  the  new  art 
of  production  Appia  is  set  apart  by  two  things.  First, 
he  was  not  the  pure  painter;  he  did  not,  like  Bakst  and 
so  many  of  the  Russians,  see  the  stage  as  an  easel  await- 
ing his  glorification.  Second,  he  was  not,  like  Craig, 
impatient  with  plays,  playwrights,  and  actors,  with 
everything  except  the  artist;  he  did  not  like  Craig  see 
the  stage  as  something  to  be  made  over  into  a  new  art 
of  pure  design,  pure  movement. 

Appia  is  sharp  in  his  criticism  of  the  pretense  and 
the  pretentiousness  of  the  tasteless  theatricalism  and 
the  uncritical  realism  in  the  theatre  of  the  nineties; 
his  diatribes  on  the  stage  of  his  day  are  devastating, 
and  perhaps  the  only  easily  readable  portions  of  his 
book.  He  splits  off  from  the  pure  painters  in  attack- 
ing the  use  of  both  flat  lighting  and  flat  painting.  He 
is  with  Craig  in  banishing  the  footlights  and  false  per- 

79 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

spective.  But  he  goes  further  than  Craig  and  further 
than  all  in  the  basic  philosophy  of  his  art — the  domi- 
nating place  of  light  in  the  theatre. 

Appia  sees  action  as  the  heart  of  the  theatre.  "In 
the  theatre,"  he  says,  "we  should  seek  to  strengthen  the 
dramatic  action."  But  he  is  thoroughly  orthodox,  as 
well  as  thoroughly  sound,  in  his  search  for  the  source 
of  this  action.  "It  is  the  presence  of  the  actor  upon 
the  stage  which  causes  dramatic  action;  without  actors 
there  would  be  no  action."  It  is  possible,"  of  course,  to 
believe  that  the  actor  of  whom  Appia  writes  could  be 
the  Ubermarionette  of  Craig,  but  nowhere  does  Ap- 
pia hint  at  this.  He  is  absorbed  with  the  problem  of 
bringing  truth  and  beauty  into  the  relations  of  out 
plays  and  actors  and  settings  as  we  know  them. 

Looking  at  the  stage  of  his  day  Appia  saw  the  fun- 
damental error  of  all  production;  the  conflict  of  the 
dead  setting  and  the  living  actor.  In  the  most  extreme 
cases  this  took  the  form  not  only  of  painted  canvas 
against  human  flesh  but  of  painted  canvas  distorted 
into  false  perspective  and  given  the  lie  by  the  presence 
of  the  actor  as  a  measuring  stick  beside  it.  Against  the 
two-dimensional  paintings  on  the  backdrops  and  wings 
there  was  set  the  three-dimensional  and  moving  actor. 
The  intricate  mechanisms  of  the  eye  detected  the  fraud. 
It  was  necessary  to  give  the  setting  actual  depth.  Yet 
even  that  would  not  be  enough.  Rocks  of  wood  and 
canvas,  trees  of  papier-mache,  could  never  unite  with 

80 


APPIA— THE  LIGHT  AS  DRAMATIST 

the  actuality  of  the  actor.  No  amount  of  realism  in 
setting  could  ever  resolve  this  conflict,  could  ever  con- 
jure us  away  from  the  knowledge  that  we  were  in  a 
world  of  pretense. 

Appia  might  have  offered  abstract  design — free  of 
any  pretense  at  reality — as  the  solution;  he  might  have 
put  the  actor  against  a  background  frankly  theatrical, 
frankly  a  means  of  expressing  in  color  or  shape  the 
emotion  of  the  scene.  Instead  he  chose  to  make  the 
setting  an  atmosphere;  to  let  the  background  of  nat- 
ural objects  be  refined,  simplified  and  made  dramatic, 
and  then  beautified,  softened  and  united  with  the  liv- 
ing actor,  through  the  other  live  factor  in  the  theatre 
— the  light. 

The  abolition  of  flat  perspective,  the  giving  of  three 
dimensions  to  all  stage  objects,  seems  the  least  re- 
markable contribution  of  Appia;  but  twenty-five  years 
ago  all  this  was  almost  a  revolution.  You  will  see 
in  the  photographs  of  Uncle  Vanya  at  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre  a  flight  of  thirty  or  forty  steps  ascending 
the  backdrop  from  the  garden,  where  the  actors  sit, 
to  the  house  where  some  of  them  are  supposed  to  live. 

Appia's  leap  ahead  to  light  as  the  core  of  the  drama 
was  incomprehensible  to  his  day,  and  it  is  not  yet  ap- 
preciated in  ours,  in  spite  of  all  the  growing  experi- 
ments in  pure,  arbitrary  and  abstract  light.  Quite  as 
remarkable  in  one  respect  was  the  way  in  which,  seek- 
ing to  make  light  the  core  of  the  drama,  he  anticipated 

81 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

the  theory,  practice  and  mechanism  of  modern  stage 
lighting. 

As  Appia  analyzed  it  there  were  only  four  sources 
of  light  in  the  nineties:  the  border  lights  above,  the 
footlights  below,  the  spot  lights  or  bunch  lights  at  the 
sides  and  light  thrown  from  behind  through  transparen- 
cies. The  border  lights  and  the  footlights  produced 
a  flat,  shadowless  light.  Illumination  through  trans- 
parent or  translucent  drops  offered  little  usefulness. 
To  fight  the  picture  gallery  lighting  of  the  borders 
and  foots  there  were  only  the  spot  lights  and  bunch 
lights.  These  supplied  illumination  from  a  single 
source,  and  consequently  shadows.  And  in  shadows 
controlled  and  modified  by  the  diffused  light  of  the 
foots  and  borders,  Appia  recognized  the  medium  for 
giving  both  the  setting  and  the  actors  the  same  sculp- 
tural three-dimensional  values.  The  diffused  light  of 
the  foots  and  borders  served  to  make  the  scene  visible. 
The  direct  light  of  spots  and  bunches  served  to  provide 
dramatic  quality.  Thus  analyzing  the  crude  lighting 
equipment  of  the  nineties  Appia  anticipated  the  ex- 
tensive use  which  we  make  today  of  rows  of  high-pow- 
ered incandescent  lights  overhead,  in  the  place  of  the 
border  lights,  and  the  restriction  of  the  footlights  to 
a  secondary,  practically  corrective  place  in  stage 
lighting. 

Appia  made  himself  definitely  a  regisseur  of  the 
new  stage  art,  as  well  as  a  designer  of  arresting  stage 

82 


From   The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine. 


DIE    W.M.KURE — APPIA  S    DESIGNS 

On  this  page  and  opposite  page  84  appear  four  of  the  seven  sketches  by 
Adolphe  Appia,  from  his  Die  Mus'tk  unit  die  Inseenierung,  indicating  light- 
ing and  arrangement  of  the  players  at  different  stages  of  the  third  act  of 
Wagner's  music-drama.  Above  is  the  setting  itself;  below,  the  scene  as  it 
appears  at  the   rise  of  the  curtain. 


APPIA— THE  LIGHT  AS  DRAMATIST 

pictures,  when  he  went  beyond  the  quality  of  light 
upon  the  stage  to  a  consideration  of  how  the  movement 
of  the  light  and  the  shape  of  the  various  parts  of  the 
settings  could  be  arranged  to  make  the  actor  still  more 
a  living  expression  of  the  playwright's  action. 

The  designs  for  Tristan  und  Isolde,  Das  Rhein- 
gold,  Die  Walkure,  Siegfried,  and  Gotterdammerung, 
which  are  included  in  Die  Musik  und  Die  Inscenier- 
ung,  the  designs  which  he  has  since  made  for  Parsifal 
and  the  settings  which  he  conceived  for  Claudel's 
L'Annonce  faite  a  Marie  during  his  work  with  Jaques- 
Dalcroze  in  the  remarkable  theatre-hall  of  the  latter's 
school  at  Hellerau-bei-Dresden,  have  a  majestic  beauty, 
an  appropriate  and  arresting  dignity  which  place  them 
far  above  a  great  deal  of  perfervid  and  eccentric 
work  of  the  new  stagecraft.  They  are  on  a  level  with 
Craig's  so  far  as  grandeur  of  conception  goes,  and  ex- 
ceed them  in  practicability,  though  they  are  inferior  as 
drawings. 

Invariably  these  designs  are  not  only  arresting  in 
themselves  but  arresting  as  an  expression  of  the  drama. 
They  never  exist  for  themselves  alone.  They  follow 
the  prescription  that  Appia  set  for  the  forest  of  Sieg- 
fried: "We  must  no  longer  try  to  create  the  illusion  of 
a  forest;  but  instead  the  illusion  of  a  man  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  a  forest."  He  particularizes :  "When  the  for- 
est trees,  stirred  by  the  breeze,  attract  the  attention  of 
Siegfried,   we,   the   spectators,    should   see   Siegfried 

83 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

bathed  in  the  moving  lights  and  shadows,  and  not  the 
movement  of  rags  of  canvas  agitated  by  stage  tricks. 
The  scenic  illusion  lies  in  the  living  presence  of  the 
actor." 

It  is  obvious  that  Appia  is  designing  more  than  mere 
painted  backgrounds,  however  good.  He  is  creating  a 
whole  plastic  stage  and  filling  it  with  a  dramatic  and 
dynamic  light.  He  believes  that  the  actor  takes  on 
meaning  in  two  ways,  is  significant  by  two  things  with 
which  he  comes  in  contact.  His  movements  have  beauty 
and  significance  only  as  they  play  upon  natural  objects 
and  shapes,  and  are  outlined  and  sculptured  by  light. 

"The  two  primary  conditions  for  the  artistic  display 
of  the  human  body  on  the  stage  are  these :  a  light  which 
gives  it  plastic  value,  and  a  plastic  arrangement  of  the 
setting  which  gives  value  to  its  attitudes  and  move- 
ments. The  movement  of  the  human  body  must  have 
obstacles  in  order  to  express  itself.  All  artists  know  that 
beauty  of  movement  depends  on  the  variety  of  points 
of  support  offered  it  by  the  ground  and  by  natural  ob- 
jects. The  movements  of  the  actor  can  be  made  artistic 
only  through  the  appropriate  shape  and  arrangement 
of  the  surfaces  of  the  setting."  The  shape  and  positions 
of  the  rocks  in  the  third  act  of  Die  Walkure,  as  Appia 
places  them,  give  the  actors  the  proper  opportunity  for 
movement  and  display  in  relation  to  the  action  of  the 
scene.  Copeau  is  one  of  the  few  modern  directors  to 
appreciate  the  possibilities  of  this  theory  of  Appia's. 

84 


From  The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine 


DIE    WAI.KURE — APPIA  S    DESIGNS 
Two  later  stages  of  lights  and  actors;    above,  the   Valkyrs  cower  before 
the  cloud   in   which   VVotan   appears;    below,  the  scene   as  he  goes. 


APPIA— THE  LIGHT  AS  DRAMATIST 

Similarly  "an  object  or  an  actor  takes  on  a  plastic 
quality  only  through  the  light  that  strikes  it,  and  the 
plasticity  can  only  be  of  artistic  value  when  the  light 
is  artistically  handled."  Light,  in  other  words,  can 
give  the  actor  and  the  objects  of  the  setting  sculptural 
beauty  appropriate  to  the  drama. 

Furthermore  the  changes  in  light,  as  it  plays  over  the 
actor  as  well  as  the  setting,  its  position  and  intensity, 
its  movement  throughout  the  scene,  are  of  paramount 
importance.  The  drama  of  the  physical  and  spiritual 
action  can  be  interpreted  by  the  light.  Thus  Appia 
schemes  the  last  act  of  Tristan  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
the  light  and  shadow  from  the  sun  play  its  own  drama. 
At  the  beginning  Tristan  lies  in  the  shade  of  the  castled 
nook  which  Appia  has  provided  for  his  retreat,  with 
the  tree  casting  a  shadow  over  him  and  the  sunlight 
touching  only  his  feet.  As  his  strength  rallies  the  sun- 
light creeps  up  his  body.  When  Isolde  comes  it  reaches 
his  head  and  bathes  the  two  lovers.  Then  the  sun  slowly 
passes,  leaving  only  a  spot  of  brightness  in  the  doorway 
by  which  Mark  and  his  followers  enter.  "The  light 
fades  little  by  little,  until  the  scene  is  enveloped  in  a 
dark  twilight.  The  curtain  falls  on  a  calm,  peaceful 
picture,  of  uniform  tone,  where  the  eye  distinguishes 
only  the  last  reflection  of  sunset  lighting  softly  the  white 
robe  of  Isolde." 

In  Die  Musik  und  die  Inscenierung  Appia  not  only 
described  such  scenes  as  these.    He  illustrated  succes- 

8i 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

sive  stages  of  the  lighting  by  means  of  drawings  of  the 
setting  and  people  at  various  moments  of  the  play:  four 
sketches  for  the  second  act  of  Tristan,  two  for  the  third 
act,  seven  for  the  third  act  of  the  Die  Walkure. 

Appia  has  worked  even  less  than  Craig  in  actual  pro- 
duction, and  his  writings  are  less  read.  Like  Craig,  he 
has  long  been  inactive  professionally.  Yet  his  designs 
are  still  stimulating  his  fellow  artists  after  twenty-five 
years,  and  reforms  for  which  he  argued — the  abolition 
of  perspective  and  the  creation  of  a  genuine  three-di- 
mensional stage  by  means  of  sculpturesque  lighting — 
are  now  commonplaces  of  the  new  stagecraft.  It  was 
perhaps  his  chief  distinction  that  he  anticipated  in  the 
art  of  the  theatre  the  conception  of  time  as  an  actual  di- 
mension which  science  has  gone  far  toward  establishing 
in  the  work  crowned  by  Einstein.  In  his  Time  Ma- 
chine H.  G.  Wells  wrote  of  time  as  the  fourth  dimen- 
sion without  which  length,  breadth  and  thickness  could 
not  exist.  Appia,  who  did  so  much  to  emphasize  the 
physical  setting  as  a  three-dimensional  structure,  added 
a  fourth  when  he  wrote:  "The  mise  en  scene  is  a  pic- 
ture composed  in  time." 


86 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  ACCOMPLISHMENT  OF  GORDON  CRAIG. 

THE  great  virtue  of  Gordon  Craig  is  that  he  is 
not  a  painter  but  a  man  of  the  theatre.  He 
practiced  the  art  of  acting  before  he  practiced 
the  art  of  design,  and  so  he  knows  the  theatre  as  a  crea- 
tive instrument.  To  him  it  is  not  a  place  that  offers  its 
backdrop  as  the  hugest  canvas  any  artist  ever  had.  To 
him  it  is  a  place  where  beauty  can  be  made  without 
backdrop,  actor  or  playwright.  It  is  a  place  of  conse- 
cration that  takes  all  of  a  man,  all  of  a  dozen  men,  all 
of  a  dozen  men  in  one  man. 

At  the  heart  of  Craig,  deeper  than  the  beauty  of  his 
stage  designs,  lies  a  great  fundamental  conception :  The 
theatre  is  a  unity;  it  needs  an  artist  director  who  can 
bend  its  every  craft  to  achieve  that  unity.  He  phrased 
it  in  his  first  book,  The  Art  of  the  Theatre  (1905) : 

"The  art  of  the  theatre  is  neither  acting  nor  the 
play,  it  is  not  scene  nor  dance,  but  it  consists  of  all  the 
elements  of  which  these  things  are  composed :  action, 
which  is  the  very  spirit  of  acting;  words,  which  are  the 
body  of  the  play;  line  and  color,  which  are  the  very 
heart  of  the  scene;  rhythm,  which  is  the  very  essence  of 

87 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

dance.  One  is  no  more  important  than  the  other,  no 
more  than  one  color  is  more  important  to  a  painter  than 
another,  or  one  note  more  important  than  another  to  a 


musician." 


Three  years  later  he  had  gone  on  from  the  spiritual 
essential  to  prescribe  the  mechanism  by  which  it  should 
be  achieved: 

"It  is  impossible  for  a  work  of  art  ever  to  be  produced 
where  more  than  one  brain  is  permitted  to  direct;  and 
if  works  of  art  are  not  seen  in  the  Theatre  this  one  rea- 
son is  a  sufficient  one,  though  there  are  plenty  more." 
There  must  be  one  master  in  the  theatre,  "one  man  capa- 
ble of  inventing  and  rehearsing  a  play:  of  designing 
and  superintending  the  construction  of  both  scenery  and 
costume :  of  writing  any  necessary  music :  of  inventing 
such  machinery  as  is  needed  and  the  lighting  that  is  to 
be  used." 

You  may  detect  a  certain  extravagance  in  this.  It 
is  the  extravagance  of  the  ideal.  It  holds  the  essential 
truth  that  there  must  be  in  the  directing  head  of  a  thea- 
tre the  aesthetic  knowledge  of  all  that  is  neded  to  bring 
a  play  to  life,  and  of  where  these  things  are  to  be  found. 
To  know  this,  to  understand,  prescribe,  select,  criti- 
cize and  guide,  a  director  must  have  first-hand  creative 
feeling  for  the  work  of  playwright,  actor  and  designer. 
Upon  that  minimum  Craig  would  fix  his  demands  of 
the  practical  theatre.  In  his  faith,  in  his  writings,  in 
his  inspiration,  he  would  soar  up  and  beyond  to  the 

88 


THE  ACCOMPLISHMENT  OF  GORDON  CRAIG 

great,  creative  all-inclusive  artist  of  the  playhouse  who 
may  never  be  born. 

Craig  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  man  of  the  theatre.  He  is 
not,  however,  the  master  of  the  theatre  that  he  describes. 
If  he  were,  he  would  have  had  a  theatre  under  his  con- 
trol these  twenty  years,  if  not  in  England,  then  in  Ger- 
many or  Russia.  Between  1900  and  1903,  when  he  was 
fresh  from  four  years  of  cogitation  on  the  problem,  he 
accomplished  seven  productions  in  London,  acting  as 
stage  manager  as  well  as  designing  scenery  and  cos- 
tumes. They  were  Dido  and  /Eneas,  The  Masque  of 
Love,  Handel's  opera,  Acts  and  Galatea,  Laurence 
Housman's  nativity  play,  Bethlehem,  part  of  Sword  and 
Song,  Ibsen's  Vikings,  and  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 
One  gathers  that  the  response  of  neither  the  British 
public  nor  the  British  patron  of  art  was  hearty.  One 
gathers  also  that  in  the  next  few  years,  during  which 
German  managers  offered  opportunities  for  cooperation 
beset  with  very  human  misconceptions  of  his  purpose, 
Craig  was  not  able  to  develop  the  patience  that  under- 
stands lesser  men  and  slowly  and  painstakingly  bends 
them  to  its  desires.  One  gathers  that  the  creative  im- 
pulse could  not  drive  itself  through  the  practical  thea- 
tre to  proper  expression,  and  that,  retiring  to  the  studio 
and  the  writing  desk,  it  let  itself  go  with  a  vigor  that 
often  approached  abandon.  Only  Duse  and  Stanislav- 
sky have  since  succeeded  in  enlisting  Craig's  aid. 

The  auto-intoxication  of  the  theorist  who  is  not  given 

89 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

his  opportunity  to  create  is  visible  in  Craig's  writing. 
His  brilliant  basic  theories  whirl  off  into  unresolved 
contradictions,  ecstatic  over-statements.  He  cannot 
hold  his  gigantic  conception  of  the  theatre  with  the  grip 
of  a  Michelangelo  or  a  Leonardo.  Presently  we  find 
this  man  who  has  gone  through  apprenticeship  and  ac- 
complishment appearing  to  the  public  eye  as  a  man  who 
would  eliminate  practically  everything  and  everybody 
of  the  theatre  as  we  have  known  it  for  twenty  centuries, 
except  a  mask  and  a  marionette. 

When  Craig  wrote  of  action,  words,  line,  color, 
rhythm  as  of  equal  importance,  he  added :  "In  one  re- 
spect, perhaps,  action  is  the  most  valuable  part.  Action 
bears  the  same  relation  to  the  Art  of  the  Theatre  as 
drawing  does  to  painting,  and  melody  does  to  music. 
The  Art  of  the  Theatre  has  sprung  from  action — move- 
ment— dance."  This  reservation  was  to  develop  a 
whole  new  theatre — actorless,  without  playwright, 
without  painter,  without  musician,  without  any  of  the 
men,  except  the  director,  whom  Craig  saw  combined 
in  the  master  of  the  Art  of  the  Theatre. 

In  1907  Craig  banished  the  actor  from  his  theory. 
The  actor  was  too  human,  too  variable,  too  emotional 
a  creature  for  the  demands  of  a  theatre  directed  by  a 
single  creative  mind.  "Acting  is  not  an  art.  It  is  there- 
fore incorrect  to  speak  of  the  actor  as  an  artist.  For 
accident  is  an  enemy  of  the  artist.  .  .  .  Art  arrives  only 
by  design.    Therefore  in  order  to  make  any  work  of  art 

90 


THE  ACCOMPLISHMENT  OF  GORDON  CRAIG 

it  is  clear  we  may  only  work  on  those  materials  with 
which  we  can  calculate.  Man  is  not  one  of  these  ma- 
terials. .  .  .  The  actions  of  the  actor's  body,  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  the  sounds  of  his  voice,  all  are  at 
the  mercy  of  the  winds  of  his  emotions :  winds  that  must 
blow  forever  round  the  artist,  moving  without  unbal- 
ancing him.  But  with  the  actor,  emotion  possesses  him ; 
it  seizes  upon  his  limbs,  moving  them  whither  it  will. 
As  with  his  movement,  so  is  it  with  the  expression  of 
his  face.  The  mind  struggling  and  succeeding  for  a 
moment  in  moving  the  eyes,  or  the  muscles  of  the  face 
whither  it  will;  the  mind  bringing  the  face  for  a  few 
moments  into  thorough  subjection,  is  suddenly  swept 
aside  by  the  emotion  which  has  grown  hot  through  the 
action  of  the  mind.  Instantly,  like  lightning,  and  be- 
fore the  mind  has  time  to  cry  out  and  protest,  the  hot 
passion  has  mastered  the  actor's  expression.  It  is  the 
same  with  his  voice  as  with  his  movements.  Emotion 
cracks  the  voice  of  the  actor.  It  sways  his  voice  to  join 
in  the  conspiracy  against  his  mind.  Emotion  works 
upon  the  voice  of  the  actor,  and  he  produces  the  impres- 
sion of  discordant  emotion.  It  is  of  no  avail  to  say  that 
emotion  is  the  spirit  of  the  gods,  and  is  precisely  what 
the  artist  aims  to  produce;  first  of  all  this  is  not  true, 
and  even  if  it  were  quite  true,  every  stray  emotion,  every 
casual  feeling,  cannot  be  of  value.  .  .  .  Art,  as  we  have 
said,  can  admit  of  no  accidents.    That,  then,  which  the 

9i 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

actor  gives  us,  is  not  a  work  of  art;  it  is  a  series  of  acci- 
dental confessions." 

In  the  same  essay  Craig  suggests  three  ways  out  of  the 
dilemma  of  an  actorless  stage  that  would  not  be  given 
up  wholly  to  the  painter  or  at  any  rate  the  scenic  artist. 
One  is  to  retain  the  actor  but  to  confine  his  expression 
to  "symbolic  gesture."  Another  is  to  revive  the  mask. 
The  third  is  his  famous  project  for  an  "tlber marion- 
ette"— a  gloriously  facile  instrument  flexible  and  grace- 
ful beyond  our  conception  of  puppets  today,  through 
which  the  mind  of  the  artist  could  create  human  move- 
ment in  agreement  with  the  "noble  artificiality"  which 
Craig  seeks  in  the  theatre.  In  a  passage  that  stamps 
Craig  as  a  master  of  words  as  well  as  pencil,  lights  and 
acting,  Craig  pictures  the  origins  of  drama  in  the 
marionette. 

In  1908  Craig  complained  of  other  interlopers  in 
the  vineyard  of  the  theatre.  One  of  the  earliest  was 
the  playwright.  As  examples  he  adduced  Shakespeare 
and  Moliere,  both  of  whom,  he  omitted  to  observe, 
were  actors.  The  musician  had  also  trod  down  the 
vineyard;  there  was  Wagner.  "Today  we  find  that 
the  painter  is  actually  making  eyes  at  the  little  place." 

It  takes  the  greatest  honesty  and  insight  and  self- 
control  not  to  say  that  indeed  he  is  making  eyes  at  it. 
And  that  the  eyes  belong  to  a  certain  actor  who  would 
banish  playwright,  player,  and  musician  and  leave  the 
theatre  to  pure  vision.    It  is  only  the  ecstacy  of  truth 

92 


THE  ACCOMPLISHMENT  OF  GORDON  CRAIG 

in  Craig's  words  that  can  make  us  hold  back  from  a  too 
easy  criticism  of  the  greatest  creative  force — barring 
Ibsen — that  has  entered  the  theatre  of  the  world  since 
Shakespeare  and  Moliere.  Craig  questions  all  factors 
in  the  theatre  today.  He  chastens  the  actor.  He  throws 
out  Shakespeare  (favorite  dramatist  of  the  scenic  dec- 
orators), along  with  the  didactic  playwright.  He  chal- 
lenges the  musician  even  while  he  cries  that  the  art  of 
the  theatre  must  take  cognizance  of  rhythm  and  dance. 
He  goes  to  the  length  of  tracing  the  derivation  of  the 
word  theatre  back  to  the  Greek,  "a  place  for  seeing 
shows",  derived  from  the  Greek  dtaonai  I  see,  and  add- 
ing: "Note:  Not  a  word  about  it  being  a  place  for 
hearing  30,000  words  babbled  out  in  two  hours." 

Craig  has  the  right  to  respectful  attention  even  when 
he  grows  most  eccentric,  most  extreme,  most  inconsist- 
ent, because  he  has  a  vision  of  the  future  theatre,  a  real 
vision,  filled  with  beauty  and,  better  than  beauty,  re- 
ligious ecstacy.  He  looks  for  the  coming  of  a  theatric 
Messiah  "who  shall  contain  in  him  all  the  qualities 
which  go  to  make  up  a  master  of  the  theatre,"  and  he 
looks  for  "the  reform  of  the  theatre  as  an  instrument. 
When  that  is  accomplished,  when  the  theatre  has  be- 
come a  masterpiece  of  mechanism,  when  it  has  invented 
a  technique,  it  will  without  any  effort  develop  a  crea- 
tive art  of  its  own."  In  another  passage  he  says :  "There 
shall  spring  so  great  an  art,  and  one  so  universally  be- 
loved, that  I  prophesy  that  a  new  religion  will  be  found 

93 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

contained  in  it.  That  religion  will  preach  no  more, 
but  it  will  reveal.  It  will  not  show  us  the  definite  im- 
ages which  the  sculptor  and  the  painter  show.  It  will 
unveil  thought  to  our  eyes,  silently — by  movements — in 
visions." 

Such  a  vision  would  probably  have  done  less  than 
nothing  for  the  reform  of  our  current  stage  had  Craig 
confined  his  efforts  to  its  explication.  Craig  has  played 
the  major  part  in  making  over  our  methods  of  produc- 
tion and  altering  our  notions  of  the  theatre — in  fact,  in 
forcing  us  nearer  to  his  own  conception  of  the  future 
art — because  in  theory  and  execution  he  has  devoted 
much  time  and  a  great  genius  to  the  ordinary  detail  of 
mounting  plays  as  we  find  them. 

The  first  of  his  contributions  has  been  a  brilliant  at- 
tack upon  realism,  upon  our  absorption  with  the  nat- 
ural. All  through  his  fugitive  essays  runs  this  impa- 
tience with  the  accidental,  this  insistence  upon  the  dis- 
covery, the  study,  and  the  presentation  of  only  the  es- 
sential, the  necessary.  Three  volumes  of  reprinted  arti- 
cles, two  of  them  illustrated  with  designs  of  extraordi- 
nary beauty  and  originality,  carry  the  burden  of  this 
message.  They  also  carry  practical  detail,  prescrip- 
tions of  technique,  often  as  amusingly  and  intriguingly 
put  as  this  ban  upon  the  footlights : 

Playgoer :  Well,  will  you  tell  me  why  they  put  lights 
all  along  the  floor  of  the  stage — footlights  they  call 
them,  I  believe? 

94 


THE  ACCOMPLISHMENT  OF  GORDON  CRAIG 

Stage  Director:    Yes,  footlights. 

Playgoer:    Well,  why  are  they  put  on  the  ground? 

Stage  Director:  It  is  one  of  the  questions  which  has 
puzzled  all  the  theatre  reform  gentlemen,  and  none 
have  been  able  to  find  an  answer,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  there  is  no  answer.  There  never  was  an  answer, 
there  never  will  be  an  answer.  The  only  thing  to  do 
is  to  remove  all  the  footlights  out  of  all  the  theatres 
as  quickly  as  possible  and  say  nothing  about  it.  It  is 
one  of  those  queer  things  which  nobody  can  explain, 
and  at  which  children  are  always  surprised.  Little 
Nancy  Lake,  in  1812,  went  to  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
and  her  father  tells  us  that  she  also  was  astonished  at  the 
footlights.    Said  she: — 

"And  there's  a  row  of  lamps,  my  eye. 
How  they  do  blaze — I  wonder  why 
They  keep  them  on  the  ground." 

— Rejected  Addresses. 
That  was  in  18 12  and  we  are  still  wondering. 

For  a  further  practical  detail  Craig  has  set  himself 
always,  in  work  and  in  precept,  against  false  perspec- 
tive. In  spite  of  the  Russians  he  detects  nothing  of 
"noble  artificiality"  in  it.  In  his  Towards  a  New  Thea- 
tre (1912),  he  writes  of  his  designs:  "I  think  you  will 
very  seldom  see  things  here  in  perspective:  avenues 
leading  up  to  goodness  knows  where  and  which  no  one 
could  walk  on  .  .  .  when  I  came  to  design  scenes  for 
myself  I  avoided  putting  any  place  in  my  picture 
which  could  not  be  traveled  into  actually  by  the  actors. 
Now  if  in  the  drama  you  have  mention  of  a  staircase 

95 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

which  no  one  was  even  able  to  ascend  or  descend,  and 
if  the  dramatist  wishes  to  show  that  nobody  ever  will 
be  able  to  ascend  that  staircase,  then  there  seems  some 
sense  in  painting  it  instead  of  building  it.  But  if  steps 
are  to  be  shown  in  some  scene — let  us  say  in  Julius 
Ccesar — which  not  only  fantasy  but  common  sense 
would  people  with  many  figures,  then  it  is  preposterous 
to  paint  those  steps — they  must  be  built;  for  if  you 
only  paint  them,  and  no  one  ever  passes  up  or  down 
them,  you  suggest  to  the  spectator  that  there  was  some- 
thing very  eccentric  about  Rome  on  that  particular 
afternoon.     Is  not  this  true? 

"So  you  will  see  this  rule  running  right  through  my 
designs.  There  is  not  a  spot  in  them  which  could  not 
be  walked  upon  and  lived  in.  Where  I  have  intro- 
duced a  pyramid,  as  in  the  design  for  Ccesar  and  Cleo- 
patra, I  have  put  it  so  far  off  that  in  nature  no  one  would 
see  the  figures  upon  it.  It  is  at  such  a  distance  that  our 
imagination  alone  could  people  it — and  our  fancy  runs 
up  and  down  it  with  ease." 

Craig  has  given  in  one  memorable  chapter  in  On  the 
Art  of  the  Theatre  a  complete  and  practical  account  of 
the  technique  of  the  new  stagecraft  which  supplies  a 
vision  of  the  ends  to  be  sought  in  both  setting  and  direc- 
tion, as  well  as  the  concrete  detail  of  how  to  design  a 
setting : 

"Come  now,  we  take  Macbeth.  We  know  the  play 
well.    In  what  kind  of  place  is  that  play  laid?    How 

96 


THE  ACCOMPLISHMENT  OF  GORDON  CRAIG 

does  it  look,  first  of  all  to  our  mind's  eye,  secondly  to 
our  eye? 

"I  see  two  things.  I  see  a  lofty  and  steep  rock,  and 
I  see  the  moist  cloud  which  envelops  the  head  of  this 
rock.  That  is  to  say,  a  place  for  fierce  and  warlike  men 
to  inhabit,  a  place  for  phantoms  to  nest  in.  Ultimately 
this  moisture  will  destroy  the  rock;  ultimately  these 
spirits  will  destroy  the  men.  Now  then,  you  are  quick 
in  your  question  as  to  what  actually  to  create  for  the  eye. 
I  answer  as  swiftly — place  there  a  rock.  Let  it  mount 
up  high.  Swiftly  I  tell  you,  convey  the  idea  of  a  mist 
which  hugs  the  head  of  this  rock.  Now,  have  I  de- 
parted at  all  for  one-eighth  of  an  inch  from  the  vision 
which  I  saw  in  the  mind's  eye? 

"But  you  ask  me  what  form  this  rock  shall  take  and 
what  colour?  What  are  the  lines  which  are  the  lofty 
lines,  and  which  are  to  be  seen  in  any  lofty  cliff?  Go 
to  them,  glance  but  a  moment  at  them;  now  quickly  set 
them  down  on  your  paper;  the  lines  and  their  direction, 
never  mind  the  cliff.  Do  not  be  afraid  to  let  them  go 
high;  they  cannot  go  high  enough;  and  remember  that 
on  a  sheet  of  paper  which  is  but  two  inches  square  you 
can  make  a  line  which  seems  to  tower  miles  in  the  air, 
and  you  can  do  the  same  on  your  stage,  for  it  is  all  a 
matter  of  proportion  and  nothing  to  do  with  actuality. 

"You  ask  about  the  colours?  What  are  the  colours 
that  Shakespeare  has  indicated  for  us?  Do  not  first 
look  at  Nature,  but  look  in  the  play  of  the  poet.    Two ; 

97 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

one  for  the  rock,  the  man;  one  for  the  mist,  the  spirit. 
Now,  quickly,  take  and  accept  this  statement  from  me. 
Touch  not  a  single  other  colour,  but  only  these  two  col- 
ours through  your  whole  progress  of  designing  your 
scene  and  your  costumes,  yet  forget  not  that  each  colour 
contains  many  variations.  .  .  . 

"But  the  rock  and  its  cloud  of  mist  is  not  all  that 
you  have  to  consider.  You  have  to  consider  that  at  the 
base  of  this  rock  swarm  the  clans  of  strange  earthly 
forces,  and  that  in  the  mist  hover  the  spirits  innumer- 
able ;  to  speak  more  technically,  you  have  to  think  of  the 
sixty  or  seventy  actors  whose  movements  have  to  be 
made  at  the  base  of  the  scene,  and  of  the  other  figures 
which  obviously  may  not  be  suspended  on  wires,  and 
yet  must  be  seen  to  be  clearly  separate  from  the  human 
and  more  material  beings. 

"It  is  obvious  that  some  curious  sense  of  a  dividing 
line  must  be  created  somewhere  upon  the  stage  so  that 
the  beholder,  even  if  he  look  but  with  his  corporeal  eye, 
shall  be  convinced  that  the  two  things  are  separate 
things.  I  will  tell  you  how  to  do  this.  Line  and  pro- 
portion having  suggested  the  material  rock-like  sub- 
stance, tone  and  colour  (one  colour)  will  have  given 
the  ethereal  to  the  mist-like  vacuum.  Now  then,  you 
bring  this  tone  and  colour  downwards  until  it  reaches 
nearly  to  the  level  of  the  floor;  but  you  must  be  careful 
to  bring  this  colour  and  this  tone  down  in  some  place 
which  is  removed  from  the  material  rock-like  substance. 

98 


From    Towards  a  Ne<w  Theatre. 


MACBETH — DESIGN     BY    CORDON    CRAIG 

The  sleep-walking  scene.  In  spite  of  the  scale  of  the  setting  the  figure  of 
Lady  Macbeth  always  achieves  significant  prominence.  At  the  base  of  the  column, 
next  the  steps,   appear  carvings  of  ancient  kings. 


THE  ACCOMPLISHMENT  OF  GORDON  CRAIG 

"You  ask  me  to  explain  technically  what  I  mean. 
Let  your  rock  possess  but  half  the  width  of  the  stage, 
let  it  be  the  side  of  a  cliff  round  which  many  paths 
twist,  and  let  these  paths  mingle  in  one  flat  space  taking 
up  half  or  perhaps  three  quarters  of  the  stage.  You 
have  room  enough  there  for  all  your  men  and  women. 
Now  then,  open  your  stage  and  all  other  parts.  Let 
there  be  a  void  below  as  well  as  above,  and  in  this  void 
let  your  mist  fall  and  fade;  and  from  that  bring  the 
figures  which  you  have  fashioned  and  which  are  to 
stand  for  the  spirits.  I  know  you  are  yet  not  quite  com- 
fortable in  your  mind  about  this  rock  and  this  mist; 
I  know  that  you  have  got  in  the  back  of  your  head  the 
recollection  that  a  little  later  on  in  the  play  come  sev- 
eral interiors,  as  they  are  called.  But,  bless  your  heart, 
don't  bother  about  that.  Call  to  mind  that  the  interior 
of  a  castle  is  made  from  the  stuff  which  is  taken  from 
the  quarries.  Is  it  not  precisely  the  same  colour  to 
begin  with?  And  do  not  the  blows  of  the  axes  which 
hew  out  the  great  stones  give  a  texture  to  each  stone 
which  resembles  the  texture  given  it  by  natural  means, 
as  rain,  lightning,  frost?  So  you  will  not  have  to  change 
your  mind  or  change  your  impression  as  you  proceed. 
You  will  have  but  to  give  variations  of  the  same  theme, 
the  rock — the  brown;  the  mist — the  grey;  and  by  these 
means  you  will,  wonder  of  wonders,  actually  have  pre- 
served unity.  Your  success  will  depend  upon  your 
capacity  to  make  variations  upon  these  two  themes;  but 

99 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

remember  never  to  let  go  of  the  main  theme  of  the 
play  when  searching  for  variations  in  the  scene. 

"By  means  of  your  scene  you  will  be  able  to  mould 
the  movements  of  the  actors,  and  you  must  be  able  to 
increase  the  impression  of  your  numbers  without  actu- 
ally adding  another  man  to  your  forty  or  fifty.  You 
must  not,  therefore,  waste  a  single  man,  nor  place  him 
in  such  a  position  that  an  inch  of  him  is  lost.  There- 
fore the  place  on  which  he  walks  must  be  the  most  care- 
fully studied  parts  of  the  whole  scene.  But  in  telling 
you  not  to  waste  an  inch  of  him  I  do  not  therefore  mean 
to  convey  that  you  must  show  every  inch  of  him.  It 
is  needless  to  say  more  on  this  point.  By  means  of  sug- 
gestion you  may  bring  on  the  stage  a  sense  of  all  things 
— the  rain,  the  sun,  the  wind,  the  snow,  the  hail,  the 
intense  heat — but  you  will  never  bring  them  there  by 
attempting  to  wrestle  and  close  with  Nature,  in  order 
so  that  you  may  seize  some  of  her  treasure  and  lay  it  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  multitude.  By  means  of  suggestion 
in  movement  you  may  translate  all  the  passions  and  the 
thoughts  of  vast  numbers  of  people,  or  by  means  of 
the  same  you  can  assist  your  actor  to  convey  the  thoughts 
and  the  emotions  of  the  particular  character  he  imper- 
sonates. Actuality,  accuracy  of  detail,  is  useless  upon 
the  stage." 

Here  in  this  passage  Craig  made  answer — before  an- 
swer was  asked — to  the  critics  of  the  new  stagecraft  who 
see  it  or  pretend  to  see  it  as  only  a  matter  of  scenery, 

ioo 


THE  ACCOMPLISHMENT  OF  GORDON  CRAIG 

as  the  elevation  of  one  factor  in  a  production  to  domi- 
nance over  older  and  more  essential  factors.  Here  is 
a  rounded  and  complete  emotional  interpretation  of  a 
play,  analyzing  the  emotional  values  established  by  the 
dramatist,  interpreting  these  values  in  the  terms  of 
human  actors  and  stage  atmosphere,  in  movements, 
lights,  color,  line,  costume,  and  background.  When 
a  man  has  written  thus  of  the  workaday  business  of  pro- 
duction and  has  reached  out  to  a  vision  of  a  theatre  of 
the  future  filled  with  the  exaltation  of  religious  ritual, 
he  should  not  have  to  defend  himself  or  his  school  from 
the  charge  of  being  painters  who  are  totally  absorbed 
in  the  designing  of  odd,  new-fangled  scenery.  Essen- 
tially the  type  of  stage  artist  who  has  developed  with 
the  new  stagecraft  is  the  pictorialist  who  should  be  di- 
rector. When  he  has  a  theatre  at  his  command  he  cre- 
ates without  bothering  at  all  with  design  or  picture. 
When  he  has  no  theatre,  as  Craig  has  had  no  theatre  for 
fifteen  years,  he  is  forced  by  his  creative  spirit  to  put 
upon  paper  some  slight  suggestion  of  the  thing  that  he 
would  conjure  forth  in  actors,  canvas  and  light.  But 
he  remains,  for  all  that,  a  man  of  the  theatre,  not  a 
painter  dabbling  in  a  new  medium. 


IOI 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  PLASTIC  STAGE. 

TFIE  theories  of  Gordon  Craig  and  the  theories 
of  Adolphe  Appia,  working  out  through  the 
practice  of  some  fifty  scenic  artists,  resulted 
within  fifteen  years  in  the  creation  of  a  plastic  stage. 
Except  for  the  brilliant  productions  of  the  Russians, 
the  old  two-dimensional  scenery  disappeared.  Set- 
tings, like  actors,  came  in  three  dimensions.  Pillars 
were  molded  in  the  round,  or  at  least  the  half-round; 
doors  had  frames,  and  ceilings  had  moldings.  In  the 
pursuit  of  beauty  and  imagination  real  steps,  deep  case- 
ments, solid  cornices  became  as  common  in  plays  by 
Maeterlinck,  as  in  productions  by  Belasco.  The  cam- 
paign against  the  false  perspective  brought  in  the  archi- 
tectural or  plastic  stage. 

The  case  against  painted  perspective  is  simple 
enough.  It  is  to  be  found  in  the  mechanism  of  the  eyes. 
There  were — and  sometimes  there  still  are — two  sorts 
of  stage  perspective;  and  there  are  certain  adjustments 
of  the  eye  that  almost  entirely  defeat  them.  One  vari- 
ety of  perspective  used  to  be  employed  in  the  side  walls 
of  rooms;  the  other  is  still  to  be  seen  on  our  backdrops. 
It  was  a  common  practice  twenty  and  twenty-five 

102 


THE  PLASTIC  STAGE 

years  ago  for  the  scene  painter  to  scale  down  the  height 
of  his  side  walls  and  the  designs  upon  them  as  they 
stretched  towards  the  rear  of  the  stage.  This  was  in- 
tended to  produce  an  effect  of  greater  depth.  The  per- 
spective of  the  two  sides  could  not,  of  course,  remain 
true  for  more  than  a  few  spectators  in  the  middle  of 
the  house;  for  the  rest,  one  side  or  the  other  or  both 
were  patently  distorted.  The  absurdity  of  the  device 
became  glaringly  evident,  even  to  the  favored  few  in 
the  central  seats,  the  moment  an  actor  moved  about 
upon  the  stage.  When  he  stood  beside  the  wall  at  the 
front  of  the  stage  he  reached  perhaps  a  third  of  the  dis- 
tance to  the  upper  moldings.  When  he  walked  to  the 
rear,  the  moldings  rushed  down  to  meet  him,  and  he 
grew  a  cubit  in  stature. 

The  other  sort  of  perspective  is  still  to  be  seen  on  our 
stage.  It  is  the  painting  of  imaginary  landscapes,  roads, 
buildings  and  trees  on  the  backdrop.  Skilful  lighting 
and  good  painting  can  do  a  great  deal  to  mitigate  the 
fake  in  this,  but  it  cannot  quite  fool  the  lenses  and 
muscles  of  the  eye. 

The  first  and  greatest  check  upon  false  perspective 
is  the  simplest — the  stereoscopic  quality  of  vision. 
Nature  is  seen  with  two  eyes  set  three  or  four  inches 
apart.  These  eyes  convey  to  the  brain  two  pictures  of 
nature,  each  slightly  different  from  the  other  in  pro- 
portions and  perspective  for  every  point  in  front  of  or 
beyond  the  object  focused.     The  brain  may  be  said  to 

103 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

mix  these  pictures  in  order  to  obtain  an  impression  of 
three-dimensional  nature.  The  process  was  familiar 
to  an  older  generation  in  the  stereoscopes  that  rejoiced 
"best  parlors."  When  our  two  eyes  look  at  a  per- 
spective on  a  backdrop,  each  one  sees  the  same  picture. 
The  stereoscopic  double-vision  is  lacking,  and  the 
brain  immediately  recognizes  the  deception.  Fur- 
thermore when  the  eye  looks  from  one  object  in  nature 
to  another  at  a  different  distance,  the  lens  of  each  eye 
expands  or  contracts  in  order  to  accommodate  the  focus 
to  the  distance,  almost  as  we  focus  cameras.  The  eyes 
also  shift  very  slightly  in  their  sockets  as  they  "trian- 
gulate" upon  the  new  object.  By  these  two  movements 
the  eyes  are  able  to  report  to  the  brain  a  fairly  accurate 
estimate  of  how  far  off  the  thing  gazed  at  may  be. 
Only  when  the  distance  is  very  great  do  the  readjust- 
ments become  negligible.  The  application  of  this  to 
the  theatre  is  that  the  eyes  will  accurately  report  that 
the  backdrop  itself,  with  the  paint  and  canvas  actually 
focused  upon,  is  fifteen,  twenty  or  fifty  yards  away. 
Any  object  painted  by  the  artist  to  appear  at  that  dis- 
tance will  seem  more  or  less  normal.  But  the  moment 
the  eyes  move  off  it  and  touch  another  that  should  be 
at  a  greater  or  less  distance  the  illusion  is  gone.  They 
fall  upon  a  mountain  peak  four  miles  off  upon  the  up- 
per corner  of  the  backdrop  without  reporting  any 
change  in  focus  or  triangulation.  They  make  no  read- 
justments.    They  report  flatness,  not  depth. 

104 


THE  PLASTIC  STAGE 

A  minor  form  of  perspective  is  to  be  found  in 
painted  shadows;  it  attempts  to  indicate  the  roundness 
of  moldings  or  the  edge  of  door  frames  by  chiaroscuro. 
This  fails  partly  on  account  of  the  adjustment  of  the 
eyes,  but  largely  because  the  angles  of  the  shadows  can- 
not be  the  same  for  all  portions  of  the  house.  It  is  im- 
possible to  eliminate  the  contrast  between  the  position 
and  quality  of  the  true  shadows  and  of  the  false.  Only 
under  very  dim  illumination  can  paint  counterfeit  the 
luminous  contrasts  between  light  and  shadow. 

There  is  only  one  respect  in  which  painted  perspec- 
tive is  still  possible  on  a  stage  that  is  three-dimensional 
and  seeks  an  illusion  of  actuality.  Craig  hinted  at  it 
when  he  wrote  of  his  designs:  "There  is  not  a  spot  in 
them  which  could  not  be  walked  upon  and  lived  in. 
Where  I  have  introduced  a  pyramid,  as  in  the  design 
for  CcEsar  and  Cleopatra,  I  have  put  it  so  far  off  that 
in  nature  no  one  would  see  the  figures  upon  it.  It  is 
at  such  a  distance  that  our  imagination  alone  could 
people  it — and  our  fancy  runs  up  and  down  it  with 
ease."  Yes,  it  is  still  possible  to  use  false  perspective 
to  indicate  very  distant  objects;  but  only  under  certain 
conditions  and  never  very  successfully. 

In  any  but  a  huge  theatre  such  as  we  do  not  know 
in  America,  whatever  mountain  or  far  seacoast  is 
painted  into  a  setting  must  be  painted  upon  some  ob- 
ject not  much  over  thirty  feet  behind  the  footlights. 
The  eyes  can  and  will  report  the  difference  between 

IOC 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

the  distance  their  vision  actually  has  to  go  and  the 
distance  that  the  artist  wishes  them  to  believe  it  has  gone, 
unless  certain  tricks  of  design  and  lighting  are  used 
to  baffle  them.  One  of  these  is,  of  course,  light  or  the 
lack  of  it.  By  creating  something  of  the  haze  of  dis- 
tance, either  through  fainter  light  upon  the  profile 
piece  or  the  drop  where  the  distant  object  is  painted, 
or  through  the  intervention  of  gauze,  the  eyes  may  be 
tricked  into  more  or  less  ignoring  the  thing  painted 
and  letting  it  fall  into  its  proper  place.  Another  trick 
and  a  better  trick  is  design.  Lee  Simonson  has  prac- 
ticed this  frequently  on  the  small  stage  of  the  Garrick 
Theatre  in  his  productions  for  the  New  York  Theatre 
Guild.  He  has  found  that  not  only  will  gauze  and 
dim  lights  throw  a  painted  object  back  out  of  the  fore- 
ground, but  that  placing  the  object  so  that  it  must  be 
seen  through  the  frame  of  some  part  of  the  main  set- 
ting— as  through  a  telescope — aids  still  more.  Thus 
in  The  Power  of  Darkness  he  got  the  illusion  of  a 
distant  field  by  forcing  the  audience  to  gaze  at  it 
through  a  deeply  shadowed  doorway.  In  the  dim  last 
act  of  The  Treasure  he  diminished  the  size  of  the 
gravestones  as  they  fell  away  over  a  little  knoll  and 
then  materially  increased  the  illusion  by  the  half -circle 
of  iron  above  the  gate  to  the  cemetery.  His  most  suc- 
cessful illusion  came  in  the  scene  by  the  railroad  em- 
bankment in  Liliom.  There  he  gave  us  a  glimpse  of 
distant  factory  chimneys  silhouetted  against  the  sky 

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THE  PLASTIC  STAGE 

(another  excellent  trick)  and  pushed  still  further  back 
by  the  heavy  stone  arch  under  which  we  had  to  peer  to 
see  them.  In  the  park  scene  of  Liliom  Simonson 
achieved  distance  through  the  use  of  dim  light  and  an 
irregularly  transparent  drop  curtain  lit  from  behind — ■ 
a  device  first  developed  by  Munroe  Hewlitt. 

All  this  account  of  the  insistence  of  the  new  artist 
on  genuine  three-dimensional  objects  and  of  devices 
that  may  momentarily  fool  the  eye,  sounds  on  the  sur- 
face rather  like  an  argument  for  realism  upon  the 
stage.  It  is  certainly  an  argument  against  the  bastard 
pretenses  of  the  old  two-dimensional  theatre;  and  with- 
out a  three-dimensional  stage  realism  is  literally  im- 
possible. Yet  at  heart,  it  is,  I  think,  a  technical  matter 
which  does  not  necessarily  touch  the  problem  of  what 
purposes  it  serves.  The  realist  needed  a  three-dimen- 
sional stage  in  order  to  achieve  that  surface  appearance 
of  everyday  life  at  which  he  aimed.  The  idealist,  the 
poet  or  whatever  you  may  care  to  call  the  dramatist 
who  is  seeking  truth  rather  than  fidelity,  the  inner  mean- 
ing rather  than  the  outward  form,  needed  to  get  rid  of 
pretenses.  He  wanted  not  realism  but  reality,  not  a  new 
pretense  but  actuality.  He  felt  at  the  beginning  the 
falseness  of  the  old  stage.  He  preferred  a  technique 
which  sought  the  ends  of  beauty  and  expressiveness, 
not  of  trickery.  He  could  not  tolerate  devices  that  set 
the  audience  thinking  of  other  things  than  the  mean- 
ing of  the  play.    The  actor  must  always  be  the  centre 

107 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

and  expression  of  the  action;  all  that  appeared  upon 
the  stage  had  to  be  put  into  harmony  with  him.  This 
banished  perspective  from  the  theatre  of  inner  truth 
quite  as  much  as  from  the  theatre  of  realism. 

Now  that  the  artists  have  achieved  this  actuality, 
this  plastic  stage,  this  architectural  setting,  have  they 
reached  the  end?  Have  they  got  the  perfect  instru- 
ment for  expression?  Unquestionably,  no.  They 
have  pared  off  the  glaring  faults  of  a  fumbling  method 
of  production  and  they  have  added  much  that  increases 
its  scope.  But  in  one  respect  at  least  they  have  pared 
off  more  than  they  have  added.  The  three-dimensional 
stage  in  its  most  perfect  and  complete  form  means  fun- 
damentally that  nothing  shall  be  shown  us  within  the 
proscenium  that  is  larger  than  the  actual  backstage 
space  in  the  theatre.  We  shall  be  given  pieces  of  archi- 
tecture to  look  at  which  are  no  greater  than  the  average 
small  ball-room.  Unless  our  theatre  has  a  plaster 
dome,  and  can  achieve  the  glorious  illusion  of  the 
heavens,  we  have  no  path  of  escape  from  the  restric- 
tions of  forty-foot  actuality.  It  does  the  artist  little 
good  if,  like  Norman-Bel  Geddes,  he  opens  up  the 
whole  proscenium  arch.  He  will  merely  reach  a  larger 
actuality,  a  new  boundary  of  the  restriction. 

These  restrictions  can  be  minimized,  of  course,  by 
the  ingenuity  and  imagination  of  a  great  artist  His 
line  can  achieve  spiritual  tangents.  By  suggestion  he 
can  lead  our  eye  from  a  single  Gothic  pillar  to  a  whole 

108 


THE  PLASTIC  STAGE 

soaring  cathedral.  Yet  it  is  inevitable  that  the  artist 
must  revolt  today  from  the  physical  and  spiritual  re- 
strictions of  the  plastic  theatre  as  he  revolts  from  the 
physical  and  spiritual  restrictions  of  the  representative 
easel  canvas.  He  will  strive  to  free  himself  from  the 
necessity  of  creating  actuality  in  order  to  suggest  the 
spiritual.  He  will  seek  for  purer  form.  He  will 
strive  for  clearer  emotion.  He  will  seek  the  expres- 
sion of  the  spiritual  by  the  most  direct  means. 

Having  denied  pretense  and  achieved  actuality,  the 
artist  of  today  is  turning  more  and  more  away  from 
the  peep-show  stage  and  its  picture  frame  towards  a 
new  theatre.  It  is  a  theatre  of  an  inner  actuality  in- 
stead of  an  outer,  an  actuality  of  form  instead  of  an 
actuality  of  fact.  The  artist  turns  from  the  plastic 
stage  to  the  formal. 


109 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE. 

THE  two-dimensional  stage  of  Victorianism  was 
damned  by  pretense  even  when  artists  of  the 
calibre  of  Leon  Bakst  accepted  and  worked 
in  it.  The  three-dimensional  stage,  which  Gordon 
Craig  and  Adolphe  Appia  forced  upon  our  theatre  by 
their  theories  against  perspective  and  in  favor  of  har- 
monizing the  actor  with  the  setting,  is  always  in  dan- 
ger of  rising  no  higher  than  a  sort  of  illusionism,  re- 
moved through  beauty  one  degree  from  realism.  On 
such  a  stage  appears  only  the  solid,  the  real,  the  thing 
that  could  exist  physically  within  the  stage  space.  It 
is  true  that  what  Shaw's  dying  Dudebat  calls  "the  might 
of  design,  the  mystery  of  color"  can  give  this  plastic 
setting  spiritual  significance;  yet  there  are  relative  lim- 
its to  its  freedom  and  ease  of  expression.  Further- 
more the  plastic  stage,  bounded  by  the  old  proscenium 
frame,  remains  a  reminder  of  a  theatre  of  limited 
vision,  a  theatre  that  is,  at  its  best,  perilously  close  to 
the  photographic.  During  much  of  the  history  of  the 
new  stagecraft  artists  and  producers  have  sought  to 
avoid  the  dangers  and  limits  of  representation  without 

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EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE 

slipping  back  into  the  barren  pretenses  of  two-dimen- 
sional scene-painting  within  a  three-dimensional 
frame.  They  have  sought  this  through  emphasis  on 
form  in  the  materials  employed.  They  have  tried  to 
introduce  structural  formality  into  the  playhouse,  and 
latterly  they  have  turned  to  what  might  best  be  de- 
scribed as  expressional  formality  in  scenic  design. 
That  is,  they  have  introduced  new  conventional  forms 
and  structures  upon  the  stage  in  place  of  the  conven- 
tional forms  of  backdrop  and  wings  or  the  solid  il- 
lusionist setting,  and  they  have  begun  to  paint  and 
build  in  forms  that  may  be  called  cubist  and  futurist, 
or  expressionist.  Let  us  consider  expressionism  first, 
since  it  can  be,  and  too  often  is,  presented  amid  the 
surroundings  of  the  older  theatre  and  without  the  spir- 
itual support  which  it  might  win  from  association  with 
a  new  form  of  stage. 

A  simple  and  rough  analysis  of  the  latest  tendencies 
in  scenic  design  and  theories  of  production  points  a 
parallel  with  the  history  of  modern  painting.  Just 
as  the  modern  artist  has  sought  to  escape  from  the  rep- 
resentative into  the  more  or  less  abstract,  and  has  given 
up  the  technique  of  Rembrandt,  Velasquez,  and  Millet 
for  the  technique  of  Matisse,  Picasso  or  Duchamps,  in 
the  same  way  the  artist  of  the  theatre  has  passed  from 
realism,  even  from  a  beautiful  and  imaginative  illu- 
sion of  reality,  to  a  formal  method  which  tries  to  create 
sharper  spiritual  values  by  paring  away  the  elements 

in 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

that  bind  us  most  closely  to  the  physical  in  life  and 
the  familiar  in  the  theatre.  The  actor  remains,  and 
must  remain;  but  all  about  him  the  artists  place  taboos 
against  the  ideas  and  emotions  which  we  are  used  to 
associating  with  him,  signs  and  wonders  to  arouse  us 
to  an  acceptance  of  something  fresh  which  he  has  to 
give. 

Expressionism  entered  our  theatre  before  it  knew  it- 
self as  expressionism.  The  term  is  a  convenient  blanket 
designed  to  cover  all  those  methods  in  modern  paint- 
ing which  substitute  the  formal  expression  of  the  ar- 
tist's emotion  for  a  representation  of  the  object  that 
may  have  aroused  it.  It  includes  cubism,  vorticism, 
and  those  portions  of  futurism  and  post-impressionism 
which  do  not  aim  too  directly  at  representation.  In 
the  older  forms  of  painting  the  object  of  the  artist  was 
usually  either  representation  or  else  the  expression  of 
an  emotion  caused  by  the  object  represented.  In  im- 
pressionism the  subjective  attitude  of  the  artist  en- 
tered a  little  more  consciously  and  fully  into  the  work. 
He  painted  the  impression  that  the  object  made  on  him 
emotionally,  rather  than  the  literal  reality  of  the  ob- 
ject. In  expressionism  he  may  still  paint  a  natural 
object,  though  often  the  picture  is  merely  an  arrange- 
ment of  planes,  masses  or  lines  of  color;  but  he  tries 
to  express  through  the  object  or  the  abstract  shapes  an 
emotion  which  he  feels  in  himself.  He  tries  to  express 
his  own  emotion,  not  an  outside  reality,  and  this  emo- 

112 


EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE 

tion  may  be  aroused  by  the  object  he  pictures  or  by 
something  altogether  apart.  Summed  up,  the  expres- 
sionist attempts  to  express  his  emotion  through  pic- 
torial means  independent  of  the  physical  reality  of  the 
object  pictured  or  its  spiritual  impression. 

Obviously  the  effort  to  make  a  natural  object  or  an 
abstract  shape  express  a  sensation  which  is  not  felt 
or  suggested  through  it,  but  which  is  present  in  the 
artist  has  a  most  direct  application  to  the  scenic  prob- 
lem. For  upon  the  stage  we  must  have  either  natural 
objects,  such  as  a  door,  or  abstract  shapes,  such  as  a 
wall,  a  platform,  or  a  draped  hanging;  and  in  the 
theatre  we  have  an  audience  which  is  to  feel  an  emo- 
tion that  is  present  not  in  the  objects  per  se,  but  in 
the  creative  mind  of  the  dramatist  and  through  him 
in  the  mind  of  the  actor  and  the  artist.  It  is  the  busi- 
ness of  the  stage  designer  to  express  this  emotion  by 
shaping  these  objects  upon  the  stage  into  significant 
forms.  He  must  not  and  he  cannot  find  an  emotion 
in  a  door.  He  must  paint  or  carve  an  emotion  into  it. 
If  he  can  paint  or  carve  that  emotion  better  through  a 
triangular  gap  in  a  wall  or  through  a  series  of  dis- 
torted Gothic  openings  in  a  screen,  then  it  is  his  busi- 
ness to  paint  or  carve  it  so.  It  is  only  necessary  that 
he  should  do  it  with  such  precision  and  power  as  to 
make  the  observer  feel  what  he,  the  creator,  has  felt. 

Before  this  process  could  be  spoken  of  as  expression- 
ism, when  it  was  known  only  by  its  outward  technique 

iJ3 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

and  called  cubism,  futurism,  or  post-impressionism, 
the  first  consistent  attempts  at  its  application  to  the 
stage  were  made  in  Moscow  by  the  Kamerny  Theatre, 
beginning  on  Christmas  Day,  1914.  The  history  of  this 
remarkable  little  theatre,  and  of  the  work  that  its  di- 
rector, Alexander  Tairoff,  its  chief  actress,  Alice 
Georgievna  Koonen,  and  its  various  artists  have  done 
is  to  be  found  in  Oliver  M.  Sayler's  Russian  Theatre 
Under  the  Revolution.  Most  of  the  productions, 
Salome,  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  King  Harle- 
quin and  Thamira  of  the  Cithern,  have  been  mounted 
against  cubist  backgrounds  and  costumed  and  acted 
with  a  similar  effect  of  angularity  and  mass.  Begin- 
ning with  cubism  in  the  flat — drops,  wings  and  walls 
painted  with  distorted  planes  and  masses — the  theatre 
has  gradually  developed  to  plastic  cubism,  to  cubism 
applied  in  all  three  dimensions.  Among  the  artists  of 
the  Kamerny  are  Sudeykin,  Kuznetsoff,  Kalmakoff, 
Lyentuloff,  Miganadzhian,  and  Natalia  Gontcharova, 
the  last  an  artist  who  has  applied  the  same  theories  in 
perhaps  less  degree  to  work  for  the  Ballets  Russes. 

In  the  productions  described  by  Sayler  it  is  interest- 
ing to  note  how  often  he  speaks  of  the  light  changing 
in  color  or  intensity  at  some  dramatic  moment  of  the 
action,  without  any  relation  to  natural  causes.  Off- 
hand no  one  would  be  likely  to  classify  an  arbitrary 
and  abstract  handling  of  stage  light  with  expression- 
ism; for  the  expressionist  canvases  have  known  no  other 

114 


SOLDIERS   FROM    A    CUBIST    SALOME 

A  group  from  the  production  of  Oscar  Wilde's  tragedy  at  the  Kamerny 
Theatre,  Moscow,  in  1917.  Not  only  in  the  design  of  the  costumes,  but  also  in 
the  posing  of  the  figures,  the  artist  and  the  director,  Alexandra  Exter  and  Alex- 
ander Tairoff,   have  striven  to  express  the   atmosphere  of  the   play. 


EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE 

than  their  own  painted  light  and  the  steady  illumina- 
tion of  the  picture  galleries.  Yet  such  treatment  of  il- 
lumination enters  inevitably  into  these  cubist  produc- 
tions in  Moscow,  and  forms  the  basis  for  the  theory  of 
Achille  Ricciardi's  Theatre  of  Color  in  Rome,  wherein 
Prampolini  and  other  cubists  worked.  Light  was 
handled  in  this  fashion  by  Maurice  Browne  in  Medea 
at  Chicago  in  19 16-17  and  by  Dalcroze  even  earlier. 

Before  Appia's  Die  Musik  und  die  Inscenierung  was 
published  practically  no  sound  thought  had  been  given 
to  stage  lighting — partly,  no  doubt,  because  control- 
lable electric  light  was  still  very  young  in  the  theatre. 
In  practice  little  had  been  done  with  this  very  impor- 
tant factor  in  stage  production  up  to  four  or  five  years 
ago.  Light  is  now  rushing  ahead  to  a  place  of  first 
importance  in  the  practice  and  the  theory  of  the  theatre, 
and  is  undergoing  as  radical  a  handling  as  any  other 
factor  in  production. 

Probably  the  first  unorthodox  use  of  light  in  New 
York — aside  from  the  abandonment  or  modification  of 
the  footlights — occurred  in  the  productions  of  Arthur 
Hopkins,  beginning  with  Redemption,  in  which  Rob- 
ert Edmond  Jones  treated  the  light  as  a  part  of  his 
design  and  not  as  proceeding  from  a  natural  source. 
In  the  second  scene  of  Tolstoy's  play,  for  instance,  he 
plunged  one  side  of  the  gypsies'  room  in  a  rich  and 
mysterious  dusk  and,  in  contrast,  bathed  the  coach  on 
which  Fedya  lay  in  a  glorious  flood  of  amber  light 

"5 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

coming  from  somewhere  in  midair.  In  The  Jest 
Genevra's  room  was  patterned  in  colored  lights  that 
caught  and  enlivened  bits  of  bright  silk  and  drapery. 
In  all  Jones's  work  he  makes  no  attempt  to  solve  that 
knotty  problem  of  making  stage  light  seemingly  come 
from  a  natural  source.  He  simply  omits  the  source  al- 
together. 

This  goes  only  a  little  way  along  the  path  of  a  radi- 
cal handling  of  stage  light,  for  Jones's  light  is  static. 
It  does  not  change  as  emotions  change  upon  the  stage. 
Here  is  where  the  Kamerny  Theatre  and  Browne  and 
Ricciardi  depart  in  originality.  Ricciardi  gave  an  ex- 
perimental season  of  plays  by  Maeterlinck,  D'Annun- 
zio,  de  Musset  and  himself  during  two  weeks  of  March, 
1920,  at  a  theatre  in  Rome,  playing  a  drama  of  chang- 
ing light  upon  the  drama  of  the  play.  Maurice 
Browne  applied  the  same  idea  to  Euripides  in  his  pro- 
duction of  Medea  in  Chicago  and  in  New  York.  Un- 
fortunately Browne's  experiment  suffered  from  an  in- 
ferior lighting  equipment,  and  also  from  an  imperfect 
working  out  of  the  problem  involved  in  applying 
utterly  unnatural  light  to  the  actors  of  a  play.  Salz- 
mann  achieved  more  subtle  changes  in  his  work  with 
Dalcroze  and  Appia  at  Hellerau.  Obviously  the  pos- 
sibilities of  coloring  an  audience's  emotions  by  coloring 
its  vision  are  great,  but  since  theatregoers  are  far 
more  used  to  fixed  and  "natural"  qualities  in  light  than 
in  any  other  element  of  life  that  may  be  transported  to 

116 


8  -gjj 

«    a  i- 


•3  5  .5f 


<  E 


EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE 

the  stage,  dynamic  and  arbitrary  stage  lighting  must  be 
calculated  with  extreme  nicety  to  reinforce  the  atten- 
tion without  distracting  it. 

A  year  later  than  the  inception  of  the  Kamerny 
Theatre  came  the  first  cubist  production  ever  given  in 
a  public  playhouse  in  America.  In  December,  1915, 
the  Philadelphia  Stage  Society,  which  had  made  use 
of  the  rich  talent  to  be  found  among  the  many  young 
artists  of  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  displayed  at  the 
Little  Theatre  as  background  to  an  eccentric  drama 
of  Spain,  Three  Women  by  Richard  J.  Beamish,  a 
bizarre  interpretation  of  Seville  painted  by  Morton 
L.  Schamberg.  This  youthful  cubist,  who  died  during 
the  war,  went  back  to  the  flat  backdrop  of  mid-Vic- 
torianism  and  spread  across  it  the  warm  violence  of 
the  Spanish  city  in  angular  piles  of  reds,  browns  and 
yellows,  with  a  bit  of  blue  sky  shattered  by  a  leaping 
arch  of  Moorish  shape. 

In  February,  19 17,  came  a  still  more  interesting  ex- 
periment in  the  expressionist  method,  again  in  Phila- 
delphia. This  was  the  production  of  the  annual  Ar- 
tists' Masque  by  the  Academy  students  with  back- 
grounds of  a  generally  expressionistic  nature  designed 
by  another  radical  young  painter,  the  late  Lyman 
Sayen.  Curiously  enough,  the  scenario  selected,  the 
work  of  William  A.  Young,  a  lighting  expert,  origi- 
nally called  for  a  still  more  remarkable  method  of  pro- 
duction.    There  was  to  be  painted  color  in  neither 

117 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

setting  nor  costumes.  The  draped  cyclorama  and  the 
simple  clothes  of  the  dancers  were  to  be  dyed  by  lights 
in  agreement  with  the  emotions  of  this  masque,  which 
developed  the  relation  of  color  and  shape  to  the  spirit- 
ual life. 

The  next  American  experiment  of  which  I  am  aware 
was  Herman  Rosse's  production  of  a  nativity  play  in 
Chicago  in  1919,  utilizing  cubist  elements  in  the  de- 
sign of  a  curtain  symbolizing  Herod  and  projecting 
at  least  one  complete  scene  upon  a  neutral  background 
by  means  of  light  passing  through  a  glass  plate  upon 
which  the  design  was  painted. 

The  Ballets  Russes  of  Sergei  Diagileff — a  pioneer 
even  when  applying  the  genius  of  such  men  as  Bakst, 
Golovin  and  Roerich  to  the  old  mechanism  of  back- 
drops and  flats — has  utilized  notably  the  art  of  such 
established  modernists  as  Picasso,  Matisse,  LarionofT 
and  Derain.  Perhaps  the  most  notable  achievement  of 
this  group  has  been  Picasso's  extraordinary  designs  for 
costumes  and  figures  for  Parade,  with  various  char- 
acters represented  by  strange  towering  agglomerations 
of  cylinders,  pipings  and  machine-like  appendages. 

The  Royal  Opera  in  Stockholm,  under  the  aegis 
of  its  active  and  daring  young  director,  Harald  Andree, 
has  presented  with  more  success  than  has  graced  any 
other  expressionist  production  outside  those  of  the  Bal- 
lets Russes,  a  performance  of  Saint-Saens'  opera  Sam- 

118 


From   Theatre-Craft,  London. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING EXPRESSIONIST  STYLE 

A  scene  from  the  production  (if  Shakespeare's  comedy  at  the  Residenz 
Theater  in  Munich  following  the  armistice.  The  design  by  Frit/  Schaerler  is 
brilliant  in  color  and  bizarrely  amusing  in  form. 


EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE 

son  et  Delilah  against  a  thoroughly  radical  background 
designed  by  Isaac  Griinewald. 

Conscious  and  mature  expressionism  entered  the 
playhouse  in  Berlin  through  experimental  matinees 
given  during  the  summer  of  1920  by  the  artists  grouped 
under  the  name  of  "Der  Sturm."  Here  the  artists 
went  a  step  further  through  having  plays  to  work  upon 
that  had  been  especially  written  for  their  purposes  by 
Kokoschka,  Hasenclever  and  others.  Again  there  was 
dynamic  light,  arbitrarily  changing,  and  also  scenery 
as  dramatic  in  movement  as  in  design. 

Milder  forms  of  expressionism  aiming  at  a  bare 
simplification  of  the  stage  in  contrast  with  one  or  two 
powerfully  designed  objects  appear  at  present  to  rule 
the  German  theatre.  In  former  royal  playhouses 
Richard  III  is  done  on  a  flight  of  blood-red  steps,  and 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing  rejoices  in  bizarre  trees 
and  gay  eccentric  furniture. 

Only  two  examples  of  German  expressionist  staging 
have  established  themselves  firmly  enough  for  export, 
and  these  through  the  motion  picture.  One  is  the  bi- 
zarre and  exciting  film,  The  Cabinet  of  Dr.  Caligari, 
made  under  the  direction  of  Robert  Wiene  of  the 
Sturm  group ;  the  other,  The  Golem,  a  mediaeval  legend 
with  a  background  built  from  designs  by  Hanz  Poel- 
zig,  the  architect  of  Max  Reinhardt's  huge  theatre,  the 
Grosses  Schauspielhaus.  In  Caligari  expressionism 
was  applied  to  painted  flats,  out  of  which  were  built 

119 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

towns  with  houses  that  seemed  about  to  topple  into  the 
streets.  In  The  Golem  expressionism  was  applied  in 
the  round,  so  to  speak;  plastic  forms  were  bent  and  dis- 
torted to  wring  from  them  strange  and  ancient  emotions. 
In  Caligari  the  settings  reinforced  the  racing  and  fan- 
tastic mystery  of  this  story  of  a  madhouse;  the  violent 
lines  of  paths  and  bridges  produced  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  rapid  and  distraught  motion  in  the  bizarre 
figures  of  the  film.  In  The  Golem  the  arbitrarily 
twisted  Gothic  forms  conveyed  a  sense  of  dreary  de- 
crepitude, of  "houses  that  talk  a  Jewish  jargon  and 
hovels  that  whisper." 

Scenery  that  shall  act,  that  shall  actually  move, 
change,  take  part  in  the  action  of  the  play  has  been 
conceived  by  others  than  the  expressionists  of  "Der 
Sturm."  In  YevreynofTs  theory  of  monodrama,  which 
requires  everything,  plot,  characters  and  setting,  to  be 
seen  as  through  the  eyes  of  the  principal  person  of  the 
play,  there  is  inherent  the  conception  of  the  back- 
ground's changing  as  the  mood  of  the  protagonist 
changes.  Herman  Rosse,  the  Dutch  decorator  who 
has  made  America  his  home,  has  worked  and  thought 
much  upon  evolving  moving  scenery. 

Rosse's  conception  creates  virtually  a  new  theatre 
and  a  new  art.  He  has  planned  to  place  within  the 
proscenium,  upon  drops,  curtains  or  gauzes,  an  il- 
lusion of  moving  scenery,  partly  accomplished  through 
varying    lights    and    moving    materials,    and    partly 

120 


From   The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine, 


CAI.IGARI — EXPRESSIONISM    ON    TIIF.    SCREEN 

Above,  the  fantastic  and  oppressive  town  of  the  German  film,  with  the  walls 
of  its  houses  toppling  inward  upon  the  streets.  Below,  the  sinister  sleepwalker  of 
The  Cabinet  of  Dr.  Caligari  drawn  through  the  garden  towards  the  gate  of  the 
heroine's   home. 


EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE 

through  designs  projected  on  these  surfaces  by  the 
motion  picture  machine.  Through  thousands  of  draw- 
ings— made  and  photographed  much  after  the  manner 
of  the  animated  cartoons  of  the  movies — he  would  cre- 
ate an  absolutely  living  and  dynamic  background. 
This  background  would  necessarily  out-act  the  actors, 
but  such  a  method  of  production  is  intended  only  for 
an  entertainment  in  which  story,  action,  color,  music, 
pantomime  and  voice  would  be  fused  to  create  a  new 
type  of  continuous  emotional  spectacle. 

This  is  such  work  as  the  Ballets  Russes  has  given  us, 
pushed  to  the  last  degree  of  completion.  The  Diagi- 
leff  Ballet,  Rosse  points  out,  has  added  to  the  motion  of 
the  actors  and  the  rhythm  of  the  music  a  motionless 
representation,  on  the  backdrop,  of  the  vivid  dynamic 
emotion  of  the  ballet.  There  has  always  been  some- 
thing of  a  conflict  between  the  moving,  living  occu- 
pants of  the  stage  and  the  static  background.  Rosse 
proposes  to  bring  the  scenery  to  life. 

Carried  to  its  logical  conclusion,  this  means  the  elimi- 
nation of  the  actor  as  the  primary  factor  in  the  theatre. 
This  is  the  accusation  made  against  the  newer  design- 
ers in  all  their  work.  Rosse  accepts  it  frankly  in  the 
case  of  the  particular  variety  of  vivid  and  emotional 
entertainment  which  has  most  readily  utilized  these 
artists'  talents.  He  thus  writes  of  the  product:  "From 
a  purely  aesthetic  viewpoint  the  effect  of  this  develop- 
ing of  the  background  at  the  expense  of  the  actor  will 

121 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

remake  the  dynamic  play.  Imagine  beyond  the  pro- 
scenium a  void  in  which  planes  and  bodies  will  de- 
velop themselves  in  limitless  graduations  of  color  and 
shape  in  one  great  rhythm  with  the  coordinating  music 
— two-dimensional  patterns  in  kaleidoscopic  succes- 
sion, and  these  fascinating  patterns  formed  by  the  inter- 
section of  solids,  darts  of  color  across  a  sombre  back- 
ground, lines,  planes,  or  solids,  and  symbols  of  man  and 
surrounding  nature,  all  emphasizing  the  mood  of  the 
music!" 

Curiously  enough,  the  very  thing  which  Rosse  de- 
scribes in  settings  has  been  achieved  by  another  artist, 
not  as  the  triumph  of  the  artificial,  the  decorative,  the 
stylistic  theatre,  but  as  a  separate  art,  an  art  of  pure 
color  and  form,  an  art  as  distinct  as  the  art  of  pure 
sound  and  sequence  which  we  call  music.  In  a  lab- 
oratory on  Long  Island,  Thomas  Wilfred,  a  natural- 
ized Dane  who  is  a  machinist  and  a  musician  as  well 
as  artist,  has  perfected  a  "color  organ"  or  "claviluse" 
which  creates  upon  a  plaster  screen  the  most  extraor- 
dinary, beautiful  and  moving  progression  of  absolute 
shapes  and  colors.  Upon  a  surface  stained  by  light, 
develop,  evolve  and  pass  the  most  lovely  and  thrilling 
of  bright  shapes  produced  apparently  by  prisms  and 
crystals.  These  figures — which  have  all  the  absolute 
Tightness  of  the  forms  from  which  they  spring — sweep 
slowly  and  majestically  upward,  turn  in  upon  them- 
selves like  crystal  veilings  moved  by  mysterious  and 

122 


From   The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine. 


MACBETH — DESIGNS    BY    ROBERT    EDMUND    JONES 

Above,  the  letter  scene  at  Dunsinane  as  sketched  for  the  expressionistic  production  by  Arthur 
Hopkins.     Below,  the  caldron  scene,   with  masks  signifying  the  unearthly   forces. 


EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE 

heavenly  winds.  Floating  in  three-dimensional  space 
— for  the  effect  of  solidity  is  astonishing  in  these  trans- 
parent objects — they  seem  to  turn  inside-out  into  a 
fourth.  The  final  effect  is  utterly  apart  from  the  the- 
atre as  we  know  it.  It  is  more  of  some  mystic  philos- 
ophy of  shapes  and  numbers,  come  to  life,  a  religion 
of  pure  form  sprung  out  of  the  void. 

There  was  for  me  this  same  mystic  quality  in  the  only 
attempt  that  Americans  have  made  upon  Broadway  in 
applying  the  principles  of  expressionism  to  the  stage — 
the  production  of  Macbeth  by  Arthur  Hopkins  in  the 
spring  of  1921  with  settings  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones. 

Throughout,  Jones  attempted  by  significant  form  to 
create  an  abstract  background  expressing  the  spiritual 
relationships  of  the  play.  He  saw  as  the  dominant 
element  of  Macbeth  the  abnormal  influence  of  the  pow- 
ers symbolized  by  Shakespeare  in  the  witches.  He 
tried  to  visualize  the  superhuman  nature  of  these  mys- 
tic forces  in  gigantic  masks  appearing  high  in  the  air 
above  the  blasted  heath.  Through  the  rest  of  the  play 
he  placed  upon  the  stage  very  simple  and  abstract 
forms  to  carry  the  mood  induced  by  the  supernatural 
influences  which  seize  and  dominate  the  characters 
constantly  throughout  Macbeth.  These  bits  of  settings 
were,  to  him,  things  projected  by  the  masked  forces 
upon  the  action  of  the  play. 

The  short  scenes,  mainly  of  a  narrative  nature,  which 
pass  elsewhere  than  at  Inverness  or  Dunsinane,  were 

123 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

acted  at  the  front  of  the  stage  against  a  draped  curtain 
of  canvas  falling  in  stiff  folds — a  curtain  of  dully- 
burnished  gold  which  took  the  lights  in  uncommonly 
beautiful  ways.  The  main  portions  of  the  drama,  the 
more  important  portions,  were  acted  upon  a  deep  stage 
surrounded  by  dimly  seen  black  hangings.  For  the 
first  scene  of  the  witches  there  were  only  the  three  silver 
masks  hanging  above  and  three  similarly  masked  fig- 
ures in  red  standing  motionless  in  a  pool  of  light  be- 
low. For  most  of  the  scenes  in  Inverness,  Jones  used 
one  or  two  sets  of  arches,  curiously  and  disturbingly 
aslant.  These  developed  in  dramatic  force  as  the 
course  of  the  play  altered.  When  Macbeth  reached 
the  highest  point  of  his  success  the  two  groups  seemed 
to  lunge  forward  and  away  toward  triumph.  In  the 
last  scenes,  when  he  heard  of  the  coming  of  Birnam 
wood,  only  one  set  of  arches  remained  and  it  seemed 
almost  toppling  to  the  ground.  Other  abstract  shapes' 
were  handled  similarly.  For  the  sleep-walking  scene 
there  were  a  series  of  arched  window  frames  set  about 
the  stage,  through  which  and  against  which  Lady  Mac- 
beth appeared.  The  throne  of  the  banquet  scene  was 
backed  crazily  by  brooding  and  malignant  shapes. 
All  these  elements  were  handled  in  the  barest  and  sim- 
plest grays,  with  an  occasional  dull  red  like  the  back- 
ing of  the  throne.  These  were  lit  by  sharp  beams  of 
light  that  came,  as  it  were,  from  the  spirits  in  the  void 
and  made  patterns  of  the  air.    The  dominating  shapes 

124 


—     u 
s.     u 


EXPRESSIONISM  IN  THE  THEATRE 

of  the  bits  of  setting  created  in  a  sensitive  spectator 
a  sensation  of  terrible,  overpowering  obsession.  These 
were  shapes  that  suggested  not  realities  but  uncon- 
scious forces.  The  characteristic  form  employed  was 
the  distorted  Gothic  arch.  Repeated  in  shields,  conical 
helmets  and  spears,  it  was  like  the  dull  point  of  a  mur- 
derous dagger.  Twisted  as  it  was,  it  impressed  upon 
the  mind  the  deadly  and  thwarted  ambition  with  which 
the  sisters  obsess  Macbeth.  Here  was  scenery  attempt- 
ing to  suggest  an  emotional  idea,  instead  of  a  physical 
reality. 

Even  without  the  impossibly  dull  performance  of 
Lionel  Barrymore  as  Macbeth  the  production  could 
not  have  achieved  its  fullest  success.  I  feel  that  Jones 
erred  in  not  keeping  the  supernatural  forces  of  the 
heath  constantly  before  us,  in  not  subordinating  the 
actual  witches  to  the  symbols  in  the  air,  and  then  in 
not  keeping  the  masks  brooding  visibly  above  all  the 
scenes  that  followed.  I  think  also  that  he  impaired 
his  effect  by  setting  these  objects  blankly  upon  the  stage 
of  an  ordinary  playhouse.  He  needed,  first  of  all,  plat- 
forms or  levels  on  which  to  display  his  significant 
arches  and  to  give  them  greater  dignity,  and  he  needed, 
above  all,  another  frame  than  the  proscenium  to  hold 
them. 

Such  experiments  as  those  of  Jones  and  others  who 
work  in  expressionist  forms  require  playhouses  suited 
more  sympathetically  to  their  purposes  than  our  houses 

125 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

where  we  are  used  to  expecting  representational  pro- 
ductions. Their  attempts  to  introduce  expressionism 
will  encounter  very  grave  difficulties  until  our  theatre, 
its  stages  and  its  auditoriums  are  virtually  made  over. 
They  must  aid  us  in  our  escape  from  representation. 
The  old-fashioned  proscenium  must  go.  Forestages 
and  portals,  or  entrances  in  the  walls  of  the  auditorium, 
must  be  introduced.  The  audience  must  give  up  at 
least  a  part  of  the  orchestra  to  the  players.  Such  re- 
forms are  necessary  to  the  expressionist  designers. 
They  tear  us  away  from  the  familiar  expectations  and 
ideas  aroused  by  the  gilded  picture  frame  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  theatre.  We  can  be  ready  for  fresh 
relationships,  visual  and  articulate,  only  in  a  fresh 
playhouse  among  fresh  surroundings.  Fortunately  an 
impulse  akin  to  the  expressionist's  has  been  preparing 
the  way  to  such  a  playhouse  in  the  physical  reforms 
made  during  the  past  fifteen  years  in  the  auditorium 
and  upon  the  stage  of  the  German  theatre. 


126 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  FORMAL  STAGE. 

BEFORE  expressionism  in  scenic  design  showed 
,  the  artist  a  way  of  escape  from  the  physical  and 
spiritual  limitations  of  the  plastic  stage,  where 
all  seemed  as  solid  as  reality,  and  not  much  larger  in 
size  or  in  meaning,  he  had  begun  to  study  the  possibili- 
ties of  introducing  structural  form  into  both  the  set- 
ting and  its  stage.  He  tried  what  could  be  done  in 
reducing  the  setting  to  a  formal  arrangement  of  more 
or  less  permanent  materials,  and  by  abolishing  or  radi- 
cally altering  the  proscenium  he  attempted  to  unite  the 
stage  and  the  auditorium  in  a  single  architectural 
whole. 

The  problem  of  formalizing  the  setting  and  produc- 
ing at  the  same  time  an  economical  and  practically  per- 
manent scenic  equipment  for  a  theatre  arrested  Gordon 
Craig  some  ten  years  ago  and  resulted  in  the  invention 
of  his  screen  settings  which  were  used  by  the  Moscow 
Art  Theater  in  its  production  of  Hamlet  in  191 2. 
Craig,  who  has  always  liked  to  use  massed  walls,  high 
towers,  large  abstract  surfaces,  hit  upon  the  scheme  of 
building  his  scenes  from  screens  of  many  folds  and 

127 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

various  sizes,  all  neutral  in  color,  and  easily  arranged 
in  an  infinite  variety  of  shapes.  Thus  a  screen  of  wide 
folds  could  be  bent  at  a  right  angle  or  prolonged  off 
stage  to  form  the  wall  of  a  building,  or  a  screen  of  nar- 
row sections  could  simulate  a  curved  wall  by  being 
bent  only  slightly  at  each  hinge.  Upon  the  surfaces 
of  the  screens,  the  stage  light  could  produce  many  and 
fascinating  degrees  of  tone,  and,  of  course,  any  desired 
colors.  Out  of  a  set  of  screens,  properly  arranged  and 
lighted,  a  theatre  could  achieve  almost  any  setting 
within  the  limits  of  the  statuesque  and  noble.  Also 
they  permitted  the  director  or  artist  handling  them  to 
express  his  own  ideas  in  form.  At  least  this  was  true 
of  Craig's  model. 

The  experiment  of  actual  production  with  Hamlet 
was  hardly  successful,  for  two  reasons :  in  spite  of  every 
effort  on  the  part  of  the  theatre,  the  fullest  cooperation 
of  the  artist  was  not  secured;  further  the  units,  which 
in  the  model  were  used  in  different  arrangements  for 
various  scenes  and  for  various  plays,  proved  awkward 
to  handle  upon  the  stage;  many  of  the  screens  were 
built  especially  for  each  scene  in  Hamlet  and  none  of 
them  was  utilized,  as  it  should  have  been  according 
to  the  Craig  theory,  for  other  productions. 

In  spite  of  the  failure  of  Craig's  screen  settings  to 
reach  practical  use,  they  have  set  him  definitely  in  the 
ranks  of  those  who  are  not  content  with  the  plastic  or 

128 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

representational  stage  and  who  seek  formal  means  of 
solving  the  problem  of  the  stage  setting. 

The  most  successful  permanent,  formal  and  adapt- 
able setting  of  which  I  know,  and  the  only  one  used 
in  America,  was  an  outgrowth  of  Craig's  experiments 
with  his  screens.  One  of  his  pupils,  Sam  Hume,  now 
director  of  the  Greek  Theatre  of  the  University  of 
California,  devised  a  mechanism  of  pilons  and 
draperies,  which,  together  with  steps  and  occasional 
flats  and  arches,  he  used  with  great  success  in  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  Arts  and  Crafts  Theatre  in  Detroit,  of 
which  he  was  director  from  1916  to  1918.  It  has  been 
described  and  pictured  by  Sheldon  Cheney  in  The 
Art  Theatre  and  in  The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine.  Dur- 
ing the  first  year,  nineteen  plays  were  given  calling 
for  twenty  scenes.  Eleven  of  these  were  made  from 
the  permanent  setting.  "The  range  covered  such  widely 
differing  requirements,"  says  Cheney,  "as  the  interior 
of  a  mediaeval  chateau  for  The  Intruder,  the  Gates  of 
Thalanna  for  The  Tents  of  the  Arabs,  the  wall  of 
heaven  for  The  Glittering  Gate,  and  a  Spartan  palace 
for  Helena's  Husband/' 

Somewhere  between  the  truly  permanent  and  formal 
setting  and  the  ordinary  stage  picture  is  the  "skeleton 
setting."  This  consists  in  carrying  through  a  complete 
production  the  same  general  structure  or  skeleton,  with 
parts  modified  or  altered.  Arches,  walls  or  pillars 
stand  throughout  the  play  and  are  merely  varied  by 

129 


PLASTER  WALL 


TRIE-FORMS 


_LL 


P*_ 


l*^B'=S='Cg'>l 


AT 


THE  WONDER  HAT 


PLASTER  WALL 


~M^ 


PI  I  ARCH  I         ri 


53 


M 


TENTS  OF  THE  ARABS 


PLASTER   WALL 

ri rz 


HELENA'S  HUSBAND 


THE   INTRUDER 


PLASTER  WALL 


EXPLANATION 
A3.C.D  =  PYLONS 
Sl,S2  =  3' STAIR  UNITS 
S3  =  G'        *  m 

M,M«MASKIM&  SCREENS 
Fl,F2»  ORIGINAL  FLATS 
F3.F4  «  ADDED        - 
HANGINGS 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  ROSE 


From  The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine. 

FIVE   SETTINGS   IN   ONE 

Diagram  of  the  arrangement  of  five  scenes  from  Sam  Hume's  permanent 
and  adaptable  setting  at  the  Arts  and  Crafts  Theatre,  Detroit 

I30 


From    The   Theatre   Arts   Maaazini 


HUMES    ADAPTABLE    SETTINCS 

Two  scenes  from  one-act  plays  as  produced  in  Sam  Hume  at  the  Arts  and 
Crafts  Theatre  in  Detroit,  from  the  units  of  his  permanent  setting.  Above, 
The  Tents  of  the  Arabs;  below,   The  W under  Hat. 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

other  smaller  units  introduced  to  give  a  particular  and 
appropriate  atmosphere  to  the  various  scenes.  The 
device  was  first  used  in  America,  I  think,  by  Joseph 
Urban  in  two  acts  of  his  production  of  The  Love  of  the 
Three  Kings  at  the  Boston  Opera  House  in  1913-14. 
Claude  Bragdon  designed  an  elaborate  and  ingenious, 
setting  of  this  sort  for  Walter  Hampden's  Hamlet  in 
1 9 19.  Robert  Bergman,  the  remarkable  craftsman 
who  has  painted  with  such  high  skill  almost  all  the 
scenery  made  from  the  designs  of  the  younger  New 
York  artists,  adapted  from  Gemier  a  skeleton  setting  for 
Spanish  Love  when  Wagenhals  &  Kemper  produced 
that  play  in  1920-21.  Sheldon  K.  Viele  used  a  skeleton 
setting  most  adroitly  in  the  Theatre  Guild's  produc- 
tion of  The  Cloister  in  the  spring  of  1921. 

It  is  seldom  indeed  that  a  playwright  anticipates  in 
his  stage  direction  the  possibilities  of  production  along 
modern  lines,  especially  these  of  a  formal  character 
which  I  am  describing.  A  notable  exception,  however, 
is  Masefield  in  his  Japanese  tragedy,  The  Faithful.  In 
his  note  at  the  beginning,  Masefield  writes: 

"This  play  is  written  to  be  played  uninterruptedly, 
without  more  break  in  the  action  than  is  necessary  to 
get  the  actors  off  the  stage  and  to  raise  the  screen  or 
curtain  dividing  the  scenes.  There  are  only  two 
scenes:  one  the  front  part  of  the  stage,  left  quite  bare, 
without  decoration,  but  with  a  screen,  set,  or  backcloth 
at  the  back,  representing  a  Japanese  landscape,  with 

131 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

hills  and  water,  all  wintry  and  severe;  the  other,  the 
back  of  the  stage,  visible  when  this  screen  is  lifted,  a 
room  in  a  Japanese  palace,  very  beautiful,  but  bare 
save  for  a  few  flowers  and  a  picture  or  two." 

Lee  Simonson's  realization  of  this  scheme  when  The 
Faithful  was  produced  by  the  New  York  Theatre 
Guild  in  1919-20  was  not  alone  beautiful  and  moving 
in  its  design  and  color,  but  improved  markedly  upon 
the  original  idea  by  the  use  of  actual  screens  (freshly 
designed,  of  course),  which  folded  back  out  of  sight 
during  the  use  of  the  inner  scene,  instead  of  being 
hoisted  like  an  ordinary  curtain. 

Decidedly  the  most  interesting  experiment  in  struc- 
tural form  made  in  America  has  been  Robert  Edmond 
Jones's  production  of  Richard  III  as  directed  by  Ar- 
thur Hopkins  for  John  Barrymore  in  1919-20.  Here 
we  had  a  permanent  setting  in  one  sense,  yet  not  a 
setting  that  tried  to  simulate  various  places  rather  than 
itself.  It  was  not  a  frame  for  inner  scenes  but  rather 
an  enveloping  presence.  Covering  the  back  of  the 
stage  and  circling  into  the  wings  was  a  portion  of  that 
dread  old  Tower  of  London  in  which  the  murders  of 
Richard  centred.  This  moldering  gray  threat  re- 
mained throughout  the  play.  It  stood  like  the  empty 
skull  of  Richard  with  the  hideous  drama  within  it. 
Certain  scenes  used  this  wall,  its  towers  and  its  frown- 
ing gate  frankly  as  the  exterior  of  the  Tower.  For 
other  scenes  pieces  of  property  were  placed  within  it. 

132 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

But  the  wall  remained  throughout — or  should  have  re- 
mained, if  the  artist's  original  conception  had  been 
more  closely  followed — a  lowering  presence.  Thus 
for  the  prison  of  Henry  VI  there  was  an  iron  cage 
in  the  centre  of  the  stage.  For  the  prison  where  the 
princes  were  murdered  Jones  ran  a  grill  from  pro- 
scenium to  proscenium,  just  back  of  where  the  curtain 
should  fall.  For  the  palace  of  York  there  was  a  small 
raised  platform  backed  by  an  arras;  in  this  scene, 
against  the  artist's  desires,  the  walls  of  the  tower  were 
somewhat  hidden  by  low  hangings.  Similarly  dark- 
ness hid  the  tower  during  the  scene  on  Bosworth  Field, 
whereas  Jones  originally  conceived  the  setting  as  a 
great  gibbet  outlined  in  fiery  silhouette  against  the 
flame-lit  Tower. 

As  actually  produced,  this  Richard  III  became  in 
certain  scenes  merely  a  trick  production  a  grade  below 
a  permanent  setting  since  it  sought  to  disguise  the  com- 
mon element  rather  than  to  gather  strength  and  unity 
from  it.  As  conceived  and  as  used  in  most  of  its  scenes, 
however,  this  remarkable  setting  moved  far  ahead  in 
the  history  of  production  through  the  use  of  new  struc- 
tural form.  Its  prime  virtue  was  that  it  found  its 
form  in  the  mind  of  the  playwright,  that  it  dramatized 
through  its  use  of  the  Tower  as  a  background  the 
dominating  mood  of  the  play.  It  escaped  from  repre- 
sentation, it  achieved  a  new  and  a  true  theatricalism — 

133 


CWPg-QflKTe* 


From  the  Theatre  Arts  Magazine. 

THE   MUNICH   KUNSTLER  THEATER 

Georg  Fuchs'  playhouse  and  "relief  stage."  Note  the  inner  proscenium, 
below  and  at  the  sides  of  the  word  "Biihne."  At  either  side  of  the  orchestra 
pit  are  portals  such  as  the  architect,  Max  Littmann,  introduces  into  his 
proscenium  in  other  houses.    The  seats  continue  up  over  the  foyers. 

134 


From   The   Theatre  Arts  Maqazine. 


RICHARD    III — DESIGNS    BY    ROBERT    E.    .JONES 

For  Arthur  Hopkins'  revival  of  the  play  with  John  Barrymore.  In  every 
scene  appeared  some  part  of  the  permanent  background  shown  above,  the  Tower 
of  London.  Standing  alone,  it  served  for  most  street  scenes  and  exteriors.  Placed 
in  front  of  it  were  simple  indications  of  other  settings.  The  lowec  sketch  is  for 
the   last   scene. 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

which  has  become  more  and  more  the  object  of  the  new 
stagecraft. 

The  most  notable  and  successful  experiment  in  a 
new  structural  form  was  brought  forth  in  Munich  in 
1907  by  Georg  Fuchs,  a  director  who  must  be  placed 


0119*36768  to  »  gQ»»» 

From  The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine. 

CROSS-SECTION    OF   A    LITTMANN    THEATRE 
The  Munich  Kunstler  Theater,  showing  the  sunken  orchestra  pit,  which 
may  be  covered  over  to  serve  as  forestage  for  the  portals  in  the  proscenium. 

close  to  Craig  and  Appia  as  a  theorist  of  the  new  thea- 
tre. Fuchs  created  the  idea  of  the  "relief  stage"  and  em- 
bodied it  in  the  Munich  Kunstler  Theater,  a  remark- 
able playhouse  and  stage  designed  by  that  master  of 
theatre  architecture,  Max  Littmann.  The  relief  stage 
is  simply  a  method  of  emphasizing  the  actor  by  plac- 
ing him  close  to  the  audience  upon  a  shallow  stage  that 

135 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

throws  up  his  body  in  relief  against  a  flat  and  very 
simple  setting.  The  method  is  usually  described  as 
two-dimensional.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Fuchs's 
artists  frequently  paint  in  perspective  upon  the  curtain 
that  makes  the  back  of  the  shallow  stage,  this  descrip- 
tion is  far  from  accurate.  "Relief"  as  an  artistic  prin- 
ciple involves  a  third  dimension.  Whatever  two- 
dimensional  painting  Fuchs  uses  is  not  employed  as  a 
pretense  at  three-dimensions,  as  it  was  in  the  old  school 
of  scene  design.  It  is  employed  as  the  only  easy  and 
free  means  of  handling  exteriors,  and  the  design  is  for- 
malized as  far  as  possible.  For  the  bulk  of  his  scenes, 
which  are  interiors,  Fuchs  employs  very  simple  walls, 
with  plastic  moldings  and  real  doors.  The  point  of 
the  whole  thing  is  fundamentally  the  emphasizing  of 
the  actor  as  a  three-dimensional  object  moving  across 
simple,  formal  and  more  or  less  abstract  settings. 
There  is  no  representation,  no  illusion,  even  in  the  in- 
teriors, for  side  towers,  forming  an  inner  proscenium 
frame,  continue  through  the  whole  play,  patently  vis- 
ible and  used  as  entrances  and  exits  to  the  scene  within. 
It  seems  rather  curious  that  Fuchs  should  never  have 
employed  a  very  simple  device  that  is  always  available 
to  avoid  the  appearance  of  returning  to  the  two-dimen- 
sional representational  stage.  This  device,  utilized 
elsewhere  in  Germany  and  by  Barker  in  his  produc- 
tions of  Shakespearean  plays  both  in  London  and  dur- 
ing his  season  at  Wallack's  in  New  York,  in  191 4- 15, 

136 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

is  simply  the  hanging  of  painted  backdrops  in  many 
folds  like  curtains.  Upon  the  canvas  surface  the  artist 
paints  freely,  more  freely  in  fact  than  if  he  were  trying 
to  produce  a  flat  backdrop  which  should  simulate  real- 
ity in  its  perspective.    The  design  may  be  worked  out 


LA   NAVE — A  DRAPED  BACKGROUND 
Canvas  painted  in   perspective  but  hung  in   folds,   instead  of  flat,  may 
make  over  the  old  backdrop  from  pretense  into  frank  decoration.     Design  by 
Norman-Bel  Geddes;   produced  by  Chicago  Opera  Co. 

with  a  certain  distortion  in  breadth,  so  that  when  it 
is  hung  in  many  folds  the  decoration  assumes  normal 
proportions.  It  remains,  however,  frankly  a  decora- 
tion, a  thing  summoning  an  emotion  through  its  line 
and  color,  but  never  for  a  moment  pretending  to  reality 
or  illusion.     Albert  Rutherston  painted  the  fantastic 

137 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

jungle  for  Androcles  and  the  Lion  in  this  fashion,  and 
Norman  Wilkinson  executed  draped  drops  to  shut  off 
the  forestage  from  the  deeper  stage  in  Barker's  pro- 
duction of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  impulse  towards  formalizing 
the  stage  in  Germany  has  come  from  Shakespeare, 
from  the  desire  of  directors  to  present  his  plays  as  they 
were  written,  without  cuts,  in  the  natural  order  of  their 
scenes  and  without  waits  for  the  shifting  of  scenes. 
Ludwig  Tieck  and  Karl  Immermann,  working  as  long 
ago  as  1840,  did  much  to  create  the  forestage  and 
inner  stage  now  familiar  as  the  essential  parts  of 
Shakespeare's  playhouse.  Immermann's  stage,  with 
entrances  at  the  sides  and  at  the  ends  of  the  rear  wall, 
as  it  appears  in  drawings  of  the  period,  is  unusually 
graceful  in  proportions  and — considering  the  lack  of 
knowledge  as  to  the  actual  mechanism  of  the  Shake- 
speare stage  —  remarkably  serviceable  to  its  pur- 
pose. In  1889  under  the  stimulus  of  Perfall, 
director  of  the  Royal  Court  Theatre,  Munich  be- 
gan experiments  towards  a  "Shakespeare  Buhne," 
which,  after  enlisting  the  aid  of  Savitts  and  Lauten- 
schlager,  have  ended  in  the  admirable  portals  and  in- 
ner stage  of  the  new  Court  (now,  I  presume,  State) 
Theatre  so  skilfully  utilized  by  Julius  V.  Klein. 

The  Shakespearean  stages  evolved  in  Germany  are 
not,  of  course,  at  all  like  the  open-air  bearpits  of 
Elizabethan  London.    They  may  best  be  described 

138 


The   first   German 


IMMERMANN  S    SHAKESPEARE 

attempt    (1840)    to    provide 


modern    setting   appropriate   to 


Shakespeare's  plays  and  founded  on  the  nature  of  his  own  playhouse.  The  doors 
lead  to  various  gardens,  streets,  etc.  The  small  inner  stage  at  the  back  could 
be  shut  off  by  a  curtain  and  its  setting  quickly  changed,  while  the  action  went  on 
upon  the  forestage. 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

as  stages  like  that  of  the  Munich  Kunstler  Theater, 
but  with  greater  depth.  In  the  base  of  the  inner  or 
false  proscenium  at  each  side  there  are  portals  or 
formal  doors,  perhaps  with  windows  and  balconies 
above.  Between  these  portals  lies  a  forestage,  a  por- 
tion of  which  would  be  hidden  by  the  normal  curtain 
of  the  theatre.  Back  of  this  forestage  and  the  inner 
proscenium  is  a  deeper  stage  which  may  be  set  in  any 
fashion  to  indicate  a  room  or  an  exterior.  Scenes  are 
played  alternately  upon  the  forestage  and  rear  stage, 
the  actors  coming  as  close  to  the  audience  as  the  psy- 
chology of  the  scene  dictates.  While  the  actors  are 
playing  some  front  scene,  the  rear  stage  is  being  reset 
behind  a  curtain  dropped  within  the  inner  proscenium. 
This  curtain  is  usually  painted  in  a  color  or  design 
appropriate  to  the  scene  of  the  action  in  front.  Carl 
Hagemann's  "Ideal  Stage"  is  a  famous  variant  of  this 
scheme. 

This  Shakespeare  stage  resulted  from  two  desires  on 
the  part  of  its  originators.  They  wished  to  secure  rapid 
changes  of  settings  in  order  to  keep  the  short  scenes 
of  Shakespeare  running  swiftly  and  naturally,  as  he 
intended,  an  object  which  the  forestage  and  rear  stage 
accomplished  even  more  successfully  than  a  revolving 
stage  or  a  sliding  stage  could  have  done.  They  also 
wished  to  approximate  the  relations  between  the  au- 
dience and  the  actors  on  the  apron  of  the  Elizabethan 
theatres  and  between  this  apron  and  the  recessed  al- 

139 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

cove  behind  the  curtain  which  was  used  for  certain 
scenes  in  Shakespeare.  In  working  upon  these  prob- 
lems they  evolved  a  formal  stage  as  thoroughly  re- 
moved from  our  realistic  or  plastic  stage  as  was  the 
Elizabethan. 

The  mechanism  of  the  German  Shakespeare  stages 
has  been  extensively  adapted  to  other  plays  and  other 
purposes.  The  portals  and  inner  proscenium  were  in- 
troduced to  America  by  Joseph  Urban  when  he  was 
artistic  director  of  the  Boston  Opera  House  between 
1912  and  1914.  For  The  Tales  of  Hoffmann  for  Don 
Giovanni,  even  for  the  pseudo-realistic  Louise  he  set 
up  false  prosceniums  within  the  old  ones — shallow 
walls  at  right  angles  to  the  footlights  and  curtain, 
pierced  by  doors  and  windows,  and  joined  at  the  top 
by  either  a  flat  or  a  curved  arch.  The  arch,  incident- 
ally, cut  down  the  sight  line  from  the  front  rows  of 
the  parquet,  and  permitted  the  abandonment  of  the  can- 
vas borders  which  were  ordinarily  necessary  to  hide 
the  gridiron  from  view.  The  portals,  standing 
throughout  the  play,  formed  a  unifying  link  between 
the  various  scenes  behind  them,  and  also  broke  the  con- 
trast between  the  gold  proscenium  and  the  setting. 
They  made  the  audience  look  at  the  stage  in  a  new 
way  and  with  a  new  feeling.  When  Urban  took  up 
designing  for  the  Ziegfeld  Follies  he  introduced  the 
portals  again,  this  time  to  simplify  changes  of  scene,  as 
in  the  Shakespeare  stage,  and  to  supply  a  deeper  fore- 

140 


Q_ 


3ackCrop 


Inner-Stage 


b le- 


Cwtain 


-2L 


12/ 


/V<a//7  Curiam 


THE    MUNICH    SHAKESPEARE    STAGE 

The  architectural  setting,  inner  stage  and  forestage  devised  by  Savitts  and  Per- 
fall  in  1890,  the  forerunner  of  the  Shakespeare  stage  of  the  former  Munich 
Royal  Court  Theatre  and  of  others  elsewhere  in  Germany.  Though  the  detail  and 
the  costuming  shown  above  are  banal  and  ugly,  like  much  of  the  stage  art  of 
their  period,  the  arrangement  of  the  stage    is   ingenious   and   serviceable. 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

stage  for  songs  and  dances  than  the  ordinary  apron 
afforded.  The  inner  proscenium,  which  practically 
becomes  a  permanent  setting  varied  by  the  change  of 
scene  in  the  small  stage-opening  it  presents,  has  been 
used  now  and  again  in  serious  productions  in  New 
York.  Urban  employed  it  in  Twelfth  Night  for  Phyl- 
lis Neilson-Terry.  Rollo  Peters  used  it  in  The  Bonds 
of  Interest,  the  first  production  of  the  Theatre  Guild 
when  he  was  its  director,  and  in  The  Prince  and  the 
Pauper,  for  William  Faversham.  Lee  Simonson  de- 
vised a  set  with  permanent  portals  and  inner  prosce- 
nium for  Pierre  Patelin  in  191 6.  Stuart  Walker  used  a 
special  inner  proscenium  for  his  Portmanteau  Theatre. 

The  most  vital  step  in  formalizing  the  stage  and 
in  altering  the  relation  between  actor  and  audience 
came  when  Max  Littmann  introduced  the  portals  of 
the  Shakespeare  stage  into  the  actual  proscenium  of 
the  theatre.  Instead  of  a  gold  frame  separating  the 
auditorium  from  the  stage  picture,  we  find  a  neutral 
wall  pierced  by  a  door,  and  often  by  a  balcony  above, 
uniting  the  auditorium  with  the  stage  itself. 

It  is  curious  to  note  that  in  this  radical  change  in  the 
purpose  of  the  proscenium  the  Germans  introduced  a 
device  which  the  English  stage  began  to  discard  in 
1800;  and  that  both  derived  it  from  the  Elizabethan 
stage.  In  Shakespeare's  time  there  were  always  two 
entrance  doors  to  the  stage  at  each  side  of  the  inner 
scene.     With  the  closing  of  the  theatres  through  the 

141 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Puritan  influence  in  1641,  the  native  English  play- 
house, derived  in  form  from  the  old  inns,  virtually 
disappeared.    When  the  ban  was  removed  and  in  1661 


THE   ENGLISH   PORTALS 

A  Cruikshank  drawing  showing  the  portals 
or  doorways  in  the  proscenium,  which  were 
used  in  British  theatres  in  the  17th,  18th  and 
19th  centuries  and  revived  by  the  German  re- 
former Littmann. 

theatres  were  built  once  more,  they  borrowed  their 
form  from  the  Italian  opera  house  and  the  French 
theatre — a  form  rather  similar  to  that  of  our  own  opera 
houses  if  we  add  a  deeper  apron.    One  feature  of  the 

142 


SHAKESPEARE    AT    THE     MUNICH     ROYAI.    COURT    THEATRE 

The  permanent  setting  devised  by  Julius  V.  Klein.  The  inner  stage  is  reset 
for  all  the  deeper  scenes  of  the  plays.  Details  of  the  inner  proscenium  and  portals 
are  changed  to  correspond  in  architectural  quality  with  the  period  of  each  play. 
A   classic   play,   Julius    Ctrsar,   above;    a    renaissance  play,  Hamlet,  below. 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

old  Elizabethan  playhouse  was  retained — at  the  behest 
of  the  actors.  This  was  the  pair  of  entrance  doors. 
And  now,  naturally  enough,  they  moved  forward  into 
the  proscenium.  Through  these  doors  in  the  picture 
frame,  the  principal  actors  made  their  entrances  and 
exits  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years.  It  was  not  until 
the  nineteenth  century  that  sentiment  against  the  "un- 
reality" of  this  device  was  able  to  override  the  actors' 
natural  allegiance  to  it.  While  Germans  were  busy 
on  experiments  which  were  to  result  in  its  reintroduc- 
tion,  the  last  of  these  proscenium  doors  closed  in  1905 
in  the  Adelphia  Theatre,  Liverpool. 

England  was  right  in  attacking  the  proscenium  door 
as  distinctly  opposed  to  realism.  It  is  actually  of  an 
older  and  a  newer  theatre.  As  developed  in  Germany, 
this  device  ends  by  altering  most  severely  the  whole 
relation  of  the  proscenium  and  the  stage  to  the  au- 
dience. Through  its  intercession  we  have  an  audi- 
torium that  merges  gradually  with  the  stage.  Often 
the  last  of  the  doors  along  the  side  walls,  which  are 
used  by  the  audience  in  reaching  their  seats,  turn  into 
other  entrances  to  the  forestage.  The  stage  itself  is, 
after  all,  only  an  extension  of  the  floor  of  the  audi- 
torium, rising  by  a  few  steps  to  the  higher  level  of  the 
forestage  and  the  inner  scene. 

Littmann,  the  most  ingenious  and  philosophic  of  the 
German  theatre  architects,  has  spent  much  time  upon 
the  problem  of  the  proper  relations  of  such  an  audi- 

H3 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

torium  and  such  a  stage.  He  has  worked  out  the  har- 
monious relations  of  its  parts  and  he  has  also  devised 
methods  of  combining  this  intimate  stage  with  the  or- 
dinary form  of  remote,  framed  picture  still  needed  for 
realistic  productions.  His  solution,  which  he  arrived 
at  fifteen  years  ago,  he  calls  the  variable  proscenium. 
It  is  adaptable  to  three  types  of  plays — realistic  dramas 
or  modern  comedies,  poetic  pieces,  and  music-dramas. 
The  heart  of  the  device  is  a  rather  deep  proscenium 
frame  into  which  doors  and  windows  may  be  let.  For 
realistic  plays  or  old-fashioned  operas  this  frame  is 
plain  and  unobtrusive;  there  is  the  ordinary  gap  of 
the  orchestra  pit  between  the  audience  and  the  foot- 
lights. When  the  house  is  to  be  used  for  Wagnerian 
music-drama,  the  walls  of  this  proscenium  frame  come 
out  and  the  orchestra  pit  is  sunken  and  half-arched 
over  by  a  sounding  board,  creating  the  "mystic  abyss" 
between  the  auditorium  and  the  stage  which  W7agner 
demanded.  For  Shakespearean  and  imaginative  plays 
the  walls  of  the  proscenium  are  used  with  doors  let  in; 
the  stage  is  extended  out  over  the  orchestra  pit,  mak- 
ing a  forestage;  steps  lead  down  to  the  auditorium 
floor,  where  two  or  three  rows  of  seats  have  been  re- 
moved to  make  more  playing  space  for  the  actors; 
finally,  doors  in  the  normal  walls  of  the  auditorium 
next  to  the  proscenium  are  used  for  added  entrances. 

With  this  modification  of  the  proscenium  and  its 
virtual  abolition  as  a  frame  for  the  stage  picture  have 

144 


TMF.     BONDS    OK    INTEREST DESIGN'     BY    PETERS 

The  permanent  setting  with  inner  proscenium  and  side  entrances  designed 
Rollo   Peters    for   the    Theatre    Guild's    production    of   Benavente's    play. 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

gone  many  experiments  in  mingling  the  audience  and 
actors.  In  his  big  spectacles,  (Edipus  Rex  and  The 
Miracle,  produced  in  buildings  like  Madison  Square 
Garden,  Reinhardt  seated  his  audience  round  three 
sides  of  a  space  in  the  centre  of  the  hall  rather  like  the 
orchestra  of  a  Greek  theatre.  He  brought  his  mobs 
of  actors  into  this  space  through  runways  under  the 
audience,  and  thus  made  them  appear  suddenly  at  the 
spectators'  very  elbow.  Reinhardt  also  brought  his 
actors  to  the  stage  over  the  heads  of  the  audience,  as 
in  Sumurun,  upon  a  runway  leading  from  the  back  of 
the  auditorium  to  the  centre  of  the  footlights,  in  pal- 
pable imitation  of  the  "flower  ways"  of  the  Japanese 
theatres.  This  device,  adapted  to  the  intimate  display 
of  the  chorus  of  our  American  musical  shows,  was  to  be 
seen  in  the  New  York  Winter  Garden. 

The  most  thorough  remaking  of  the  relations  of 
stage  and  auditorium  which  America  has  witnessed 
in  its  commercial  theatre,  came  during  1920-21  when 
a  firm  of  astute  commercial  managers  saw  far  enough 
into  the  most  advanced  theories  of  the  theatre  to  accept 
a  scheme  for  making  over  the  appeal  of  a  rather  com- 
monplace melodrama  called  Spanish  Love  by  making 
over  the  theatre  in  which  it  was  presented.  Virtually 
reproducing  Gemier's  production  of  the  play  in  Paris, 
Wagenhals  &  Kemper  put  into  a  Broadway  theatre 
almost  every  novel  physical  reform  of  the  formal  stage 
except  expressionist  scenery.     They  used  a  permanent 

H5 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

setting,  with  small  portions  changed  to  indicate  the 
different  localities  in  which  successive  acts  passed. 
They  took  out  the  footlights  and  the  orchestra  pit  and 
installed  a  forestage  on  a  lower  level  than  the  main 
stage  and  with  steps  leading  down  to  it  at  each  end. 
They  converted  the  first  box  on  each  side  into  an  en- 
trance to  this  forestage.  They  covered  up  what  re- 
mained of  the  proscenium  arch  with  hangings  keyed 
to  the  Spanish  atmosphere  of  the  play.  Finally  they 
had  the  actors  use  the  aisles  as  well  as  the  boxes  for 
entrances.  So  far  as  design  and  direction  go,  it  was 
all  an  ill-considered  and  ill-executed  attempt  to  make 
new  methods  of  approach  to  the  theatre,  give  a  stuffy 
old  play  a  counterfeit  freshness  and  significance.  The 
interesting  point  is  that  these  new  methods  succeeded 
in  doing  just  that.     The  public  responded  to  them. 

Obviously  these  attempts  to  escape  from  a  plastic 
scene  by  formalizing  the  stage  and  the  stage  picture — 
whether  they  lie  purely  in  an  expressionist  treatment 
of  the  setting  or  in  the  uniting  of  auditorium  and  stage 
by  abolishing  the  gilded  proscenium,  or  in  both — mean 
a  new  relation  of  audience  and  play,  a  return  to  a  fun- 
damental attitude  forgotten  by  the  theatre  in  its  years 
of  realism  and  its  seeking  after  illusion.  It  means  the 
treating  of  the  actor  and  the  things  about  him  as  actual 
materials  to  call  up  emotions,  not  as  things  suggesting 
and  representing  other  things.  The  theatre  of  the 
Greeks,  the  theatre  of  the  mediaeval  church,  the  thea- 

146 


■n    s> 

2     « 


THE  FORMAL  STAGE 

tre  of  the  Elizabethans,  showed  us  things  that  sug- 
gested emotion,  not  things  that  suggested  other  things 
that  might  in  turn  suggest  emotion.  In  his  difficult 
but  keen  volume,  The  Path  of  the  Modern  Russian 
Stage,  Alexander  Bakshy  has  supplied  an  excellent 
term  for  the  complementary  form  to  representation — 
presentation.  This  distinction  between  representation 
and  presentation  expresses  the  distinction  between 
things  upon  the  stage  representing  other  objects  than 
themselves — which  is  realism  or  illusionism — and 
things  merely  presenting  themselves  to  the  audience 
for  what  they  actually  are — objects  displaying  emotion 
in  themselves.  If  we  are  actually  embarked  upon  this 
transition  from  a  representational  to  a  presentational 
stage  we  must  find  evidence  of  it  in  the  handling  of 
the  actor  as  well  as  in  the  handling  of  the  setting. 


H7 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  ACTOR  RE-ANIMATED. 

THE  new  stagecraft  began  with  the  problem  of 
the  setting.  It  ends  in  the  problem  of  the  actor. 
Every  attempt  to  formalize  scenery,  every  at- 
tempt to  alter  the  shape  of  the  building  in  which  the 
play  is  given,  means  a  new  emphasis  upon  the  actor. 
For  him  there  must  be  a  new  technique  as  much  as 
for  the  artist. 

Such  devices  as  I  have  described  not  only  bring 
the  audience  into  a  new  relation  with  the  stage  and  the 
setting  but  also — and  this  is  much  more  important — 
into  a  new  relation  with  the  actor.  They  signalize  the 
invasion  of  the  theatre  by  a  theory  of  production  and 
a  type  of  play  which  are  opposed  to  realism.  They 
bring  the  theatre  and  the  actor  back  to  older  ideas. 
They  tear  away  the  realistic  stage  where  life  is  repre- 
sented as  actually  taking  place  before  our  eyes.  They 
enable  the  actor  to  present  himself  frankly  as  an  artist 
arousing  our  emotions  by  his  fresh  virtuosity.  They 
bring  us  to  the  "theatre  theatrical"  of  Meyerhold. 

Meyerhold  began  his  work  with  the  Moscow  Art 
Theatre.     He  parted  finally  with  Stanislavsky  because 

148 


THE  ACTOR  RE-ANIMATED 

he  came  to  believe  in  a  different  ideal  of  the  theatre 
and  a  different  technique  of  production.  Alexander 
Bakshy  has  summed  up  the  conflict  excellently  in  his 
Path  of  the  Modern  Russian  Stage.  It  was  the  con- 
flict between  objectivity  and  subjectivity.  "The  Art 
Theatre  placed  the  centre  of  gravity  of  the  production 
on  the  stage,  Meyerhold  transferred  it  to  the  audience. 
It  would  have  made  scarcely  an  atom  of  difference  to 
the  adequacy  and  completeness  of  the  Art  Theatre's 
performance  if  the  audience  had  been  entirely  re- 
moved." Meyerhold  did  not  wish  to  show  the  au- 
dience a  section  of  real  life.  He  wanted  to  evoke  a 
fuller  vision  of  the  world.  He  began  by  presenting 
the  actors  on  a  relief  stage,  such  as  Fuchs  created  in 
Munich,  standing  out  against  a  flat  background.  Soon, 
however,  he  was  striving  for  a  more  "statuesque"  ef- 
fect. He  gave  up  the  depth  of  an  inner  stage  for  the 
depth  of  a  wide  forestage.  Ultimately  he  returned  in 
a  measure — as  the  Shakespeare  stage  had  returned — 
to  the  forms  and  relationships  of  the  older  theatre. 
From  Oliver  M.  Sayler's  translation  in  his  Russian 
Theatre  under  the  Revolution  I  quote  Meyerhold's 
own  analysis  of  what  the  ancient  theatre  and  his  own 
theatre  gained  from  its  forestage: 

"Similar  to  the  arena  of  a  circus,  pressed  on  all  sides 
by  a  ring  of  spectators,  the  forestage  is  brought  near 
the  public,  so  that  not  one  gesture,  not  one  movement, 
not  one  glimpse  of  the  actor  should  be  lost  in  the  dust 

149 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

of  the  back  stage.  And  see  how  thoughtfully  tactful 
are  these  gestures,  movements,  postures  and  grimaces 
of  the  actor  on  the  forestage.  Of  course.  Could  an 
actor  with  an  inflated  affectation  or  with  insufficiently 
flexible  bodily  movements  be  tolerated  at  the  prox- 
imity to  the  public  at  which  the  forestages  of  the  old 
English,  French,  Spanish  and  Japanese  theatres  placed 
their  actors?" 

In  mounting  Don  Juan  at  the  Alexandrinsky  The- 
atre in  Petrograd  in  1910,  Meyerhold  did  away  with 
the  curtain,  plunged  the  audience  immediately  into  the 
atmosphere  of  this  particular  theatrical  performance, 
and,  to  lay  the  emphasis  on  the  virtuoso  make-believe 
of  the  whole  thing,  kept  the  lights  up  in  the  house 
throughout  the  evening.  Whatever  scenic  changes  his 
artist,  Golovin,  desired  were  arranged  on  a  small  inner 
stage  while  the  actors  disported  themselves  in  front. 
And  how  extraordinarily  they  did  disport  themselves! 
In  Meyerhold's  own  words : 

"It  is  necessary  to  remind  the  spectator  during  the 
whole  course  of  the  play  of  all  the  thousands  of  looms 
of  the  Lyonnaise  factories  preparing  the  silks  for  the 
monstrously  numerous  courtiers  of  Louis  XIV;  of  the 
Gobelin  hotel;  of  the  town  of  painters,  sculptors,  jew- 
ellers and  turners;  of  the  furniture  manufactured  un- 
der the  guidance  of  prominent  artists ;  of  all  those  mas- 
ters producing  mirrors  and  laces  according  to  the 
yenetian  models,  stockings  according  to  the  English 

150 


THE  ACTOR  RE-ANIMATED 

model,  cloth  according  to  the  Dutch  model,  and  tin 
and  copper  according  to  the  German. 

"Hundreds  of  wax  candles  in  three  chandeliers  from 
above  and  in  two  candlesticks  on  the  forestage;  little 
negroes  filling  the  stage  with  stupefying  perfumes, 
dripping  them  from  a  cut-glass  flask  on  heated  plati- 
num plates;  little  negroes  flitting  on  the  stage  here  to 
pick  up  a  lace  handkerchief  from  the  hands  of  Don 
Juan  or  there  to  push  the  chairs  before  the  tired  actors; 
little  negroes  tying  the  ribbons  on  the  shoes  of  Don 
Juan  while  he  is  having  a  discussion  with  Sganarelle; 
little  negroes  handing  the  actors  lanterns  when  the 
stage  is  submerged  in  semi-darkness;  little  negroes 
clearing  away  from  the  stage  the  mantles  and  the  sabers 
after  the  desperate  fight  between  Don  Juan  and  the 
brigands;  little  negroes  crawling  under  the  table  when 
the  statue  of  the  Commander  comes  on  the  stage;  little 
negroes  calling  the  public  together  by  ringing  a  little 
silver  bell  and  in  the  absence  of  the  curtain  announcing 
the  intermissions, — these  are  not  tricks  created  for  the 
diversion  of  the  snobs ;  all  this  is  in  the  name  of  the  main 
object  of  the  play;  to  show  the  gilded  Versailles  realm 
veiled  with  a  perfumed  smoke." 

Obviously  the  actor  who  performs  upon  such  a  stage 
is  not  the  actor  of  our  peep-show  realism.  He  is  the 
actor  of  frank,  dominating  virtuosity.  He  presents 
himself  to  us  as,  for  the  moment,  a  man  possessed,  an 
artist  through  whom  flows  an  irresistible  flood  of  crea- 

151 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

tive  energy.  When  I  think  of  such  performers  and 
try  to  find  them  among  our  own  players,  I  think  of  Al 
Jolson,  demoniac  upon  the  runway  of  the  Winter  Gar- 
den; I  think  of  Fannie  Brice  in  The  Follies  winning 
us  to  a  belief  in  "Second  Hand  Rose"  without  a  single 
aid  of  background,  atmosphere  or  drama.  Miss  Brice 
does  not  impersonate  this  pitifully  comic  East  Side  girl. 
She  sings  about  her  in  the  first  person  and  imitates 
her  appearance  and  emotions;  but  all  the  time  there  is 
the  most  curious  and  fascinating  undercurrent  of  in- 
timacy between  the  actress  as  actress  and  the  audience 
as  audience.  We  see  both  the  player  and  the  played. 
The  player  introduces  her  own  work  to  us,  she  almost 
criticises  it,  she  certainly  criticises  Rose.  In  the  slang 
of  Broadway  she  "wises  up"  her  audience  to  this  odd 
little  Jewish  girl.  Chevalier,  Guilbert  and  Lauder 
are  more  distinguished  players  who  have  used  the  same 
presentational  method  notably. 

By  contrast  with  such  work  the  actors  of  our  so- 
called  legitimate  stages  seem  to  find  so  little  sustenance 
in  realism.  Upon  Continental  stages,  very  rarely  on 
ours,  the  performance  wins  to  distinction  by  ensemble, 
by  the  abdication  of  the  individual.  The  unfettered 
instinct  of  our  actor  is  to  avoid  ensemble  and  to  com- 
promise with  our  stage  by  asserting  himself  and  his 
art  to  the  point  of  what  we  call  "personality"  and  no 
farther.  In  the  theatre  of  Meyerhold  personality,  in 
a  sense,  will  frankly  flourish,  but  it  will  be  deliberate 

152 


THE  ACTOR  RE-ANIMATED 

and  artificial  personality — personality  with  a  dozen 
faces,  each  for  its  own  part.  The  problem  of  the  ac- 
tor will  still  be  the  problem  of  direction;  but  with  a 
theatre  that  avoids  the  representative  quality  of  our 
realism  the  opportunities  of  direction  and  therefore  of 
the  actor  will  be  immensely  broadened. 

It  is  a  singular  fact,  and  to  some  a  disquieting  fact, 
how  far  in  such  an  account  as  this  of  the  development 
of  the  new  art  of  the  theatre  the  director  and  the  actor 
must  be  overshadowed  by  the  artist  and  the  architect. 
This  is  partly  because  the  movement  is  still  new  enough 
to  have  developed  comparatively  few  directors;  and 
partly  because  in  the  vigor  and  breadth  and  inclusive- 
ness  of  their  ideas  the  artists  are  themselves  directors. 
With  the  exception  of  such  men  as  Martersteig  and 
Hagemann  they  cannot  execute  direction;  their  tem- 
perament is  not  the  executive  temperament.  But  they 
can  and  they  do  inspire  direction,  and  finally  they  dis- 
cover directors  through  whom  their  ideas  are  given 
complete  theatrical  form.  In  America  the  artists  have 
worked  almost  without  directors,  and  have  contributed 
their  designs  and,  through  their  designs,  their  direc- 
torial ideas,  to  the  ordinary  producers  of  the  realistic 
theatre;  and  yet  they  have  already  impressed  a  style 
upon  our  stage  and  measurably  made  over  our  concep- 
tions of  directing.  But  as  yet  they  have  not  succeeded 
in  driving  our  players  towards  the  direct,  presenta- 
tional type  of  acting  which  curiously  links  Meyerhold 

153 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

with  Fannie  Brice.  This  they  cannot  do  without  the 
active  intercession  of  a  director  to  whom  it  is  a  major 
and  dominating  conviction. 

Of  America's  two  directors  who  fall  definitely  into 
the  new  movement,  Maurice  Browne  is  a  man  of  in- 
domitable energy  and  utter  integrity  whose  absorp- 
tions have  been  the  Greek  chorus  and  the  repertory 
theatre,  and  whose  conceptions  of  direction  have  been 
soundly  eclectic  rather  than  original.  The  remaining 
director,  Arthur  Hopkins,  has  given  allegiance  to  a 
curiously  negative  faith  which  has  remade  realistic 
production,  but  which  cannot  be  pushed  far  in  the 
theatre  of  tomorrow. 

In  his  monograph,  How's  Your  Second  Act?  Hop- 
kins sets  for  the  director  the  task  of  capturing  the  un- 
conscious mind  of  the  audience,  the  deep,  subliminal 
self  whose  exploration  by  Freud  and  Jung  has  made 
over  modern  psychological  science.  Like  the  hypno- 
tist, Hopkins  would  "still  the  conscious  mind."  This 
can  be  accomplished  in  the  theatre  through  simplifica- 
tion of  background  and  through  confining  the  actor  to 
the  most  unobtrusive  and  natural  expression  of  his 
emotion,  "by  giving  the  audience  no  reason  to  think 
about  it,  by  presenting  every  phrase  so  unobtrusively, 
so  free  from  confusing  gesture,  movement  and  empha- 
sis, that  all  passing  action  seems  inevitable,  so  that  we 
are  never  challenged  or  consciously  asked  why.  This 
whole  treatment  begins  first  with  the  manuscript,  con- 

154 


THE  ACTOR  RE-ANIMATED 

tinues  through  the  designing  of  settings,  and  follows 
carefully  every  actor's  movement  and  inflection.  If, 
throughout,  this  attitude  of  easy  flow  can  be  maintained 
the  complete  illusionment  of  the  audience  is  inevi- 
table." 

"Illusionment,"  you  will  note.  Is  Hopkins  talking 
of  and  for  the  peep-show?  Hardly,  for  the  producer 
of  Macbeth  and  the  associate  of  Robert  E.  Jones  has 
too  rich  a  sense  of  the  mystic  realities  of  modern 
science,  a  sense  which  forces  him  away  from  the  limits 
of  passive  hypnosis.  Cooperating  with  Jones,  he  goes 
further  than  any  Anglo-Saxon  has  gone  towards  mak- 
ing the  stage  a  place  of  spiritual  interpretation.  In- 
stead of  "illusionment,"  he  might  speak  of  "convic- 
tion," "belief,"  if  his  method  of  approach  were  more 
vigorous,  more  assertive.  He  achieves  his  hypnosis 
through  quietude,  through  lull.  He  might  achieve  it 
— or  some  domination  corresponding  to  it — through 
the  frank,  compelling  virtuosity  of  the  actor  presented 
to  us  as,  for  the  moment,  a  man  possessed. 

It  is  my  own  belief  that  no  director  and  no  theorist 
of  the  theatre  has  done  so  much  as  Jacques  Copeau  to 
reanimate  the  actor  and  to  open  up  the  avenues  of  his 
art.  He  has  done  this  not  primarily  through  the  new 
stage  which  he  has  provided  for  his  players,  remark- 
able as  it  is.  That  was  the  immediate  consequence  of 
his  impulse  to  cleanse  and  revivify  the  Parisian  theatre. 
He  did  not  begin  as  a  theorist,  unless  it  is  a  theory  to 

155 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

hold  that  the  Parisian  theatre  needed  to  be  cleansed, 
renovated,  revivified  by  integrity  and  devotion.  He 
sought  intelligent  and  sensitive  personalities  to  make 
his  acting  company.  He  found  an  economical  little 
hall,  and  then  he  tried  to  present  those  personalities  in 
the  clothing  of  the  dramatists.The  limitations  of  the 
hall,  with  its  poverty-stricken  little  stage,  and  the  inner 
necessities  of  the  new  theatrical  art  that  was  forcing 
itself  out  of  realism,  gradually  dictated  modifications 
of  the  proscenium,  and  the  construction  of  a  perma- 
nent, architectural  setting — until  Copeau  found  him- 
self working  in  the  first  genuinely  new  theatre  in  Eu- 
rope. How  he  came  to  his  philosophy  of  produc- 
tion and  how  he  actually  worked  may  best  be  under- 
stood by  those  who  did  not  see  this  Theatre  du  Vieux 
Colombier  during  its  brief  sojourn  in  New  York, 
through  these  extracts  from  Waldo  Frank's  analysis 
of  the  work  of  Copeau,  The  Art  of  the  Vieux 
Colombier. 

"With  his  simplicity  of  means,  the  actor  becomes 
Copeau's  amplest  instrument.  Copeau  believes  that 
in  his  possibilities  of  voice,  language,  gesture,  personal 
and  integrated  movement,  and  decoration,  the  actor 
should  come  first,  quite  irrespective  of  the  producer's 
material  resources.  In  this  fact,  already,  he  parts  with 
many  of  his  confreres.  The  actors,  then,  in  their  indi- 
vidual movements,  create  linear  designs.  In  the  en- 
semble of  these  movements,  the  design  becomes  vol- 

i56 


THE  ACTOR  RE-ANIMATED 

umnear,  or  three-dimensioned.  In  their  gestures,  the 
form  has  its  shadings  and  its  emphasis;  in  the  reading 
of  dialogue,  it  has  at  once  its  outline  and  its  atmos- 
phere. The  chief  function  of  the  costumes  rises  from 
the  necessity  of  an  aesthetic  marriage  between  the 
human  and  the  non-human  elements  in  the  design. 
There  must  be  a  background:  certain  materials  in  the 
form  of  draperies,  drops  and  properties  are  needed 
for  the  elucidation  of  the  play.  These  also  must  be 
organically  merged  into  the  desired  form. 

"From  this  means  of  creating  scenic  volume  comes  a 
new  freedom  of  choice.  The  producer  is  released 
from  the  narrow  exigencies  of  paint  and  canvas;  he 
takes  possession  of  a  field  whose  fertile  limits  Copeau 
has  not  begun  to  measure.  And  yet  its  mechanical 
advantage  is  but  the  secondary  value  of  this  method. 
Its  first  is  its  essential  fidelity  to  the  spirit  of  drama, 
itself.  For  drama  is  eternally  concerned  with  the 
planes,  colors,  metabolic  changes  of  human  action. 
These  qualities  are  plastic.  Drama  is  a  plastic  art. 
Copeau  obeyed  an  infallible  instinct  when  he  turned  to 
the  most  plastic  means  at  his  disposal:  the  dimensions 
of  human  bodies,  of  human  movement  and  of  human 
utterance. 

"Consider  his  production  of  Twelfth  Night.  This 
comedy  of  Shakespeare  has  little  weight  as  a  dramatic 
action.  It  has  infinite  vistas  of  poetic  charm.  Its 
chief  virtues  are  its  airiness,  its  free  dimensions,  its 

« 57 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

swift  succeeding  silhouettes  of  character  and  colors 
of  mood.  It  was  precisely  these  qualities  that  came 
forth  in  Copeau's  handling.  The  play  moved  from 
four  levels:  the  balcony,  the  main  stage,  the  proscenium 
doors  on  either  wing,  the  dungeon  underneath  the 
apron  where  Malvolio  was  imprisoned.  From  these 
four  planes,  the  characters  wove  a  design  of  fantastic 
movement.  It  lifted  and  wafted  in  the  foreground  of 
the  play.  And  in  the  background,  from  out  the  shad- 
ows under  the  balcony  of  the  Countess,  roared  the 
laughter  of  the  tippling  clowns — Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir 
Andrew  Aguecheek  and  their  fellows — whose  antics 
are  the  true  motivation  of  the  piece.  These  traceries 
of  human  movement,  f ragilely  freighted  with  the  color 
of  costumes  and  with  the  perfume  of  the  Shakespearean 
speech,  moved  back  and  forth  upon  the  scene  like  some 
magic  fancy.  They  were  a  form  indeed — diaphanous 
and  forever  running  on — of  the  romantic  action.  The 
Shakespearean  words  were  of  course  not  there.  But 
all  of  their  magic,  all  of  their  virtue  had  somehow 
found  a  form  in  the  unrolling  movement. 

"Twelfth  Night  is  a  nosegay  fluttering  loosely  in 
an  April  wind.  But  such  a  work  as  Les  Fourberies 
de  Scapin  is  a  solid  and  incisive  mass.  Observe  how 
the  methods  of  Copeau  contrive  to  meet  its  problem. 
The  play  is  a  mass,  but  not  without  grace:  it  has  the 
solidity  of  the  mental  acrobat  measuring  his  prowess 
upon  volatile  trapezes  and  flimsy  paper  rings.    The 

158 


THE  ACTOR  RE-ANIMATED 

design  of  the  play  is  this:  Scapin,  an  irrepressible 
unit — and  two  pairs  of  lovers  and  two  fathers  as  the 
fragile  and  flighty  accessories  to  prove  him.  Copeau 
does  not  temporize  with  his  design.  He  sets  a  naked 
platform  upon  the  centre  of  his  stage.  And  at  once 
in  its  bold,  sharp  prominence  the  part  of  Scapin  has 
a  marvelous  symbol.  This  platform  stands  for  Scapin 
quite  as  clearly  as  Scapin,  in  his  pied  garment,  stands 
on  it.  About  it  move  the  victims :  shifting,  uncertain, 
forever  in  the  shadows : — waves  beating  against  a  rock 
and  thrown  upon  it  merely  to  fall  back  diminished. 
Moliere  stands  forth,  created.  His  farce  has  never 
been  seen  in  this  form;  and  yet  he  has  not  been  belied. 
He  has  been  simply  more  faithfully,  more  completely 
brought  upon  the  stage.  In  the  bluff  blocking  of  the 
scene,  in  the  unceasing  body  movement  of  the  actors, 
it  is  his  words  that  live." 

In  the  theatre  of  Jacques  Copeau  we  have  a  pro- 
jection of  the  impulses  and  the  ideas  that  have  grown 
up  through  the  quarter  of  a  century  since  Craig  and 
Appia  began  to  labor. 


159 


Part  Two 
THE  NEW  PLAYHOUSE 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  ETERNAL  THEATRE. 

CONCEIVED  in  godhead, born  beside  altars, 
slain  in  the  brothel  and  born  again  in  the  soul 
of  man — endlessly  repeating  in  its  own  person 
the  story  of  its  immortal  and  rejuvenate  god,  Dionysus 
— the  theatre  has  lived  the  whole  history  of  Europe. 
No  art  has  spanned  such  range  of  time  and  forms  and 
morals.  No  art  has  so  changed  and  so  remained  the 
same. 

The  history  of  the  theatre  begins  for  us  beside  Di- 
onysiac  altars  more  than  twenty-five  centuries  ago.  It 
begins  there — as  it  began  in  India  and  China  and  Peru 
— a  religious  ritual.  It  sweeps  on  to  our  day,  waxing 
and  waning,  dying  out  and  being  born  again.  In  all 
these  twenty-five  centuries  it  passes  through  changes  so 
complete  and  so  extraordinary  that  but  for  one  element 
— the  spoken  word — we  could  not  recognize  as  the 
theatre  the  dozen  strange  congregations  of  audiences 
and  actors,  of  wood  and  stone,  which  it  has  set  up  in 
these  twenty-five  centuries. 

The  first  theatre  .  .  .  and  the  greatest  .  .  .  the  cir- 
cle about  the  altar  table  of  Dionysus.    Phallic  proces- 

163 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

sions,  dance  that  is  song  and  prayer.  Sun-glare  and 
sun-shadows,  the  blue  Attic  sky,  the  open-air.  In  the 
beginning  neither  audience  nor  actors;  only  villagers 
united  in  a  mystic  and  demoniac  ceremony,  praying 
with  their  bodies  for  the  passing  of  winter  and  rebirth 
of  life  in  the  spring.    Later,  spectators  and  ministrants 


•Vc. 


A  GREEK  THEATRE 


united  by  the  actuality  of  this  oldest  religion.  Finally, 
the  heart  of  the  religion  of  a  great  city;  a  bowl  in  the 
hillside  of  the  Acropolis  jammed  with  forty  thousand 
citizens;  a  rude  temple-front  across  one  end;  the  altar 
and  the  dancing  floor  still  in  the  centre  of  the  people; 
a  chanting,  dancing  chorus,  link  between  the  citizens 
and  the  three  actors,  who,  set  upon  stilts  and  hidden  be- 
hind masks,  tell  them  over  and  over,  play  after  play, 
year  after  year,  the  stories  of  their  heroes  and  their 

164 


THE  ETERNAL  THEATRE 

gods.  Perhaps  the  three  actors  stand  upon  a  high  plat- 
form of  the  temple,  which  is  also  a  dressing-room;  per- 
haps they  stand  upon  the  dancing  floor,  the  orchestra, 


A   ROMAN    THEATRE 


and  only  the  gods  ascend,  by  cumbrous  machinery,  to 
the  roof  of  the  temple.  However  that  may  be,  in  accents 
swept  away  ever  and  again  by  winds  from  the  bay  of 
Salamis,  these  maskers  upon  stilts  present  in  formal 
narrative  with  interventions  of  chorus,  messenger  and 

165 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

god,  fabulous  and  familiar  stories  to  a  multitude  that 
swelters  under  the  Mediterranean  sun.  .  .  . 

Rome  has  its  theatre  as  well  as  its  Coliseum,  and 
sometimes  it  finds  it  hard  to  distinguish  between  the  two. 
The  shape  of  the  theatre  is  the  Greek,  debased.  There 
is  still  the  semi-circle  of  stone  benches  holding  thou- 
sands upon  thousands.  But  the  orchestra  at  its  foot  has 
shrunken  to  a  crescent  for  the  senators  to  sit  in;  the  altar 
is  gone;  the  scena,  the  temple-dressing  room,  is  a  tow- 
ering wall,  high  as  the  bank  of  seats ;  at  its  base  the  prob- 
lematic stage  where  the  Greek  actor  may  have  trod  has 
been  broadened  out  and  lowered,  and  there  alone  the 
action  of  the  play  takes  place,  a  remnant  of  the  Greek 
chorus  mingling  with  the  actors.  A  curtain  that  drops 
into  a  slot  in  front  of  the  stage;  colored  wigs  instead  of 
masks,  unless  the  producer  is  a  Greek  dilettante;  mules, 
six  hundred  of  them, — and  spectacle.  Religion  has  fled 
with  the  altar.  Even  the  sun  is  gone,  for  elaborate 
awnings  may  be  drawn  to  protect  the  pleasure-seeking 
spectators.    Rome  dies  and  the  theatre  with  her.  .  .  . 

Five  hundred  years  later,  rebirth,  in  the  nave  of  the 
cathedral.  Religion  calls  forth  the  drama  once  more. 
Before  the  high  altar  and  in  stations  reproducing  bib- 
lical scenes  the  choristers  act  out  liturgical  dramas  of 
the  life  of  Christ,  and  the  stories  of  the  testaments. 
Candles,  incense,  and  sunlight  stained  by  the  glass  of 
high  windows;  Latin  phrases  knocking  about  among 
the  far  arches,  only  half  heard,  while  the  eyes  of  a 

166 


THE  ETERNAL  THEATRE 

thousand  lusty  believers  delight  in  the  pageant  of  their 
faith.  .  .  . 

Soon  the  miracle  plays  are  altogether  too  popular. 
They  must  be  taken  out  of  the  church  and  set  up  on  the 
common,  where  there  is  room  for  all  to  see.  In  France 
the  guilds  of  carpenters  build  a  dozen  fantastic  houses 


THE  MEDIAEVAL  PLATFORM  STAGE 
The   long  stage  with   several   scenes  shown   at  the   same   time,   used  in 
mystery  plays  at  Valenciennes  in  1547.     At  the  left  is  Heaven;  then  follow 
various  "mansions",   the   inn,   the  house   of  the   high   priest,   etc.,   until   we 
reach  Hellmouth  at  the  right. 

along  the  back  of  a  platform  more  than  a  hundred  feet 
long,  and,  from  Heaven  at  one  end  to  Hell's  Mouth  at 
the  other,  past  the  inn,  the  temple,  the  house  of  the  high 
priest,  the  action  of  these  miracles,  these  mysteries  of 
the  saints,  pass  on  to  rude  comedy  as  the  gusty  devils 
receive  the  damned  into  the  yawning  flames  of  their 
"mansion."  The  tongue  is  the  popular  tongue.  Soon 
the  guilds  are  furnishing  funds,  work,  and  actors,  and 
are  animating  the  whole  with  the  marvelous  creative 

167 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

spirit  of  craftsmanship  that  swept  Europe  out  of  the 
dark  ages  ready  for  the  Renaissance.  The  theatre  is 
back  in  the  open  air  again,  religious,  ritualistic.  It 
is  a  thing  of  festival  once  more.  .  .  . 

In  England  the  guilds  bring  drama  from  the  thea- 
tre of  the  church  to  the  theatre  of  the  booth.    The  bib- 


THE  BOOTH  STAGE  OF  THE  GUILDS 

The  mediaeval  stage  used  in  England  and  Germany  for  the  presentation 
of  mystery  plays  after  the  guilds  had  taken  them  over  from  the  church.  In 
England  such  stages,  with  two  or  three  scenes  one  above  another,  were 
placed  on  wagons  and  hauled  from  one  part  of  town  to  another. 

lical  stories  and  the  lives  of  the  saints  are  acted  out 
upon  dozens  of  small  wheeled  platforms  that  are  hauled 
from  place  to  place  about  the  city.  Sometimes  the 
players  descend  to  the  street  to  act;  sometimes  from 
their  dressing-rooms  close  to  the  ground  they  mount 
to  a  platform  above,  and  sometimes  to  a  level  still 
higher.  These  strange  restricted  little  stages  follow 
each  other  in  procession  the  whole  day  through,  acting 
over  and  over  their  rude  plays  as  one  succeeds  another 

1 68 


THE  ETERNAL  THEATRE 

before  the  expectant  townsfolk  on  Corpus  Christi.  .  .  . 
It  is  still  the  theatre  when  there  are  neither  Greek 


AN   ELIZABETHAN  THEATRE 

Shakespeare's  Globe  as  reconstructed  by  G.  P.  Fauconnet  in  Album  du 
Vieux  Colombier. 

bowls,  Gothic  naves,  French  platforms  nor  the  wagons 
of  the  guilds,  when  strollers  invade  the  inn  yard,  set 
up  a  scaffold  and  play  moralities  and  chronicles  to  the 

169 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

stable  boys,  apprentices-,  guildsmen  and  thieves  who 
crowd  the  inn  yard  and  to  the  travellers  who  step  out 
from  their  rooms  to  watch  from  the  balconies  that  cir- 
cle above. 

And  so — as  Pepys  said  a  century  later, — "to  the  play- 
house,"— the  first  in  Europe.  Not  altogether  a  house 
this  theatre  built  in  1576  by  Burbage  in  Bankside,  oppo- 
site London.  The  shell  of  an  inn,  the  heart  of  a  bear- 
pit,  a  tall  doughnut  of  a  building  with  galleries  like  the 
inn  galleries  all  round  its  inner  wall,  these  for  the 
gentry.  Out  from  the  farthest  side  of  the  hexagon  juts 
a  platform  some  forty  feet  across.  On  this  the  play  is 
acted,  later  with  a  "heavens"  or  wooden  canopy  over- 
head to  protect  the  actor  a  little  from  sun  or  English 
rain.  Where  the  stage  joins  the  back  wall  there  are 
doors  right  and  left,  a  central  nook  or  "study,"  in  which 
properties  and  indications  of  scenery  may  be  placed, 
and  above,  a  balcony  for  Juliet.  This,  with  the  yard 
about  the  stage  filled  by  a  noisy  mob  of  groundlings,  is 
the  theatre  Shakespeare  wrote  for.  No  ritual,  but  no 
curtain  and  no  roof.  Plenty  of  God's  elements  fighting 
with  the  court  against  the  Puritans.  Cromwell's  parlia- 
ment bans  the  theatre.  There  is  some  trouble  about  the 
sun ;  it  never  really  gets  into  drama  again.  .  .  . 

Meantime  in  Italy  two  theatres,  one  popular,  one 
aristocratic.  The  commedia  dell'  arte,  first  of  all  a 
street  entertainment,  later  going  indoors  as  the  "comedy 

170 


THE  ETERNAL  THEATRE 

of  masks"  and  carrying  the  scenery  of  the  street  with  it. 
A  theatre  of  virtuosity,  in  which  the  players  improvise 
their  lines  upon  scenarios  of  buffoonery  and  intrigue. 
A  theatre  of  stock  characters,  stock  costumes  and  stock 


THE   COMMEDIA   DELL    ARTE 


Between  the  two  portraits  by  Callot,  of  typical  Italian  stage  characters 
of  the  16th  century,  appears  one  of  the  stages  erected  in  the  streets  by  the 
roaming  players  prior  to  1600. 

masks,  with  the  famous  figures  Pantaloon,  the  Vene- 
tian merchant,  Dottore,  the  doctor  from  Bologna,  Spa- 
vienta,  the  Neapolitan  braggadocio,  Pullicinella,  a  wag 
from  Apulia,  Arlecchino  (Harlequin)  and  Colum- 
bina  and  other  unmasked  waiting  maids.    A  theatre  in 

171 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

which  intimacy  counts  even  more  than  in  the  Eliza- 
bethan ;  which  is  at  its  best  out  in  the  streets  and  which 
suffers  from  the  curtain  and  the  proscenium  and  the 
artificial  light  so  dear  to  the  other  Italian  theatre.  .  .  . 
This  theatre,  the  theatre  of  Lorenzan  magnificence, 
of  masque  and  pageantry,  is  the  prototype  of  the  opera 
house  and,  to  a  lesser  extent,  the  playhouse  of  today. 
Inigo  Jones,  the  great  designer  of  Tudor  and  Stuart 


ITALIAN   COMEDY   SETTING 

The  Commedia  dell'  arte,  when  it  came  in- 
doors in  the  17th  century,  utilized  a  street  scene 
of  this  sort  upon  its  stage.  The  many  houses 
had  practicable  doors  and  windows.  Moliere 
sometimes  used  a  similar  setting. 

masques,  went  to  Italy  to  observe  it,  and,  bringing  back 
its  proscenium  and  curtain  and  lights  and  scenery,  laid 
the  model  for  the  English  theatre  when  the  Restoration 
removed  the  ban  of  the  Puritans.  This  Italian  theatre 
began  perhaps  in  an  imitation  of  the  Roman,  like  so 
much  in  the  Renaissance.    The  Teatro  Olympico  in 

172 


AN  ITALIAN  COURT  MASQUE 
Callous  etching  of  one  of  the  great  spectacles  presented  in  16th  cen- 
tury palaces  from  which  our  own  form  of  opera  house  and  theatre  is 
derived.  Here  the  proscenium  appeared  definitely  for  the  first  time.  Note 
the  use  of  runways  from  the  stage  to  the  main  floor,  and  the  presence  of 
actors  upon  this  floor  at  in  Reinhardt's  Grosses  Schauspielhaus. 

1 73 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Vicenza,  built  four  years  after  Burbage's  Theatre,  has 
a  Roman  auditorium  and  a  Roman  stage  with  its  three 
doors,  but  behind  these  arched  doorways  five  elaborate 
streets  run  off  in  violent  perspective.  Perhaps  someone 
thought  of  widening  the  middle  door  to  get  at  the  scen- 
ery; at  any  rate,  the  next  theatres  present  a  proscenium 
filling  the  whole  stage  and  showing  elaborate  scenery 
behind  its  curtain.  Somewhat  in  the  Greek  tradition, 
the  action  cannot  be  confined  to  the  stage.  The  stage 
is  merely  a  colorful,  changing  background  for  the  evo- 
lutions of  the  actors  and  supernumeraries  that  fill  the 
floor  of  the  great  halls  in  which  these  prosceniums  are 
set  up.  By  a  process  of  slow  but  natural  evolution,  the 
balconies  assume  the  horseshoe  shape  of  the  opera  house, 
and  seats  are  placed  on  the  floor,  until  the  action  is  con- 
fined once  more  to  the  stage,  as  in  Rome. 

France — first  with  the  miracle  plays — comes  to  the 
theatre  of  literature  and  of  contemporary  life  later 
than  England.  By  the  time  Racine  and  Corneille  are 
ready,  the  court  is  imitating  the  Italian  opera  houses. 
Moliere's  strollers  come  into  the  covered  tennis  courts 
of  Paris  instead  of  the  inns  that  housed  Burbage,  and 
set  up  there  a  miniature  version  of  the  raised  stage,  cur- 
tain, scenery,  and  steps  down  to  the  forestage,  which 
they  are  soon  to  enjoy  in  the  Petit-Bourbon  Palace. 

The  Italian  playhouse,  transferred  to  England,  after 
the  Restoration,  reaches  by  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  a  form  which  is  recognizable  as  late  as  the 

174 


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AN  INIGO  JONES  MASQUE 

The  design  for  Jones'  court  masque,  Florimine,  produced  in  1635,  and  the 
)lan  of  the  hall  in  which  it  was  given.  The  actors  passed  down  onto  the 
loor  below  the  stage. 

175 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

nineteenth  in  the  Drury  Lane  of  Sheridan.  The  or- 
chestra, reserved  for  the  spectators,  and  rows  of  shal- 
low balconies  curving  close  to  the  walls  above,  might 
belong  to  our  own  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  But 
the  proscenium  opening  reaches  the  extraordinary 
width  of  seventy  feet,  while  before  it  lies  an  apron 
eighteen  feet  deep,  with  boxes  on  either  side  and  per- 
manent entrances  in  the  proscenium  itself.  Perform- 
ances are  given  at  night;  candle  light  gives  way  to  oil 
and  then  gas,  and  finally  footlights  appear.  .   .  . 

From  such  a  playhouse  to  the  theatre  that  houses 
Ibsen  is  a  matter  of  refinement  and  paring  away.  The 
towering  galleries  give  way  at  the  sides,  and  one  or  at 
most  two  balconies  jut  far  out  from  the  back  towards 
the  stage.  The  apron  disappears,  and,  as  electric  light 
develops,  the  scenery  recedes  into  a  box.  Realism,  an 
exact  representation  of  life,  takes  the  place  of  the  the- 
atrical conventions  that  have  flourished  for  twenty-four 
centuries.  The  director  lets  down,  firmly  but  unob- 
trusively, the  famous  fourth  wall.  .  .  . 

This  is  The  Theatre,  this  strange  agglomeration  of 
amphitheatres,  chancels,  platforms,  wagons,  inn  yards, 
bear-pits,  tennis  courts,  royal  ballrooms,  picture  frames. 
It  has  flourished  by  sunlight  and  candlelight.  It  has 
danced  and  strutted  and  sat  still.  It  has  worshiped  the 
gods,  railed  at  convention,  and  fouled  its  mouth  with 
indecencies.  This  Dionysus  has  died  a  dozen  deaths 
and  won  a  dozen  rebirths.    If  some  Martian  were  to 

176 


THE  ETERNAL  THEATRE 

see  a  performance  in  Athens  or  in  Bankside  placed  be- 
side a  performance  in  the  Belasco  Theatre,  would  he 
guess  for  a  moment  that  he  had  looked  upon  the  same 
institution,  the  same  instinctive  expression  of  godhead? 
Should  we  then  have  imagined  that  because  we  had 
pulled  down  the  fourth  wall  and  called  it  a  curtain 
this  theatre  of  ours  was  set  forever? 


177 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  MOVIES — THE  CURTAIN  BECOMES  THE  STAGE 

THE  history  of  the  physical  theatre  from  the 
Greek  amphitheatre  to  the  peep-show  of  Ibsen 
is  a  history  of  change,  the  story  of  a  dozen 
theatres  in  one.  It  forbids  us  to  believe  that  our  play- 
house is  the  last.  It  forbids  us  to  believe  that,  whether 
good  or  bad,  this  perfecting  of  realism  will  continue 
for  many  years  in  the  shape  it  has  taken. 

What,  then,  is  to  be  the  next  theatre?  What  will  be 
the  relation  of  its  auditorium  to  its  stage,  of  its  audi- 
ence to  its  actors,  of  its  drama  to  godhead?  How  will 
it  develop  from  the  theatre  that  we  have?  Can  we  note 
signs  of  such  a  new  theatre  already  in  the  alterations 
in  settings,  prosceniums  and  forestage  that  have  taken 
place  here  and  abroad  under  the  promptings  of  the 
new  stagecraft? 

Or — and  this  is  something  not  to  be  dismissed  too 
lightly — is  the  new  theatre  already  regnant  among  us, 
already  a  thing  of  fixed  and  appropriate  structure,  as 
different  from  our  theatre  in  its  physical  and  spiritual 
qualities  as  our  theatre  is  different  from  the  Greek? 
Is  the  motion  picture,  with  its  silent  actors,  its  silver 

i78 


THE  CURTAIN  BECOMES  THE  STAGE 

screen  and  its  darkened  auditorium,  the  next  theatre? 

We  have  made  the  curtain  the  fourth  wall  of  realism. 
Are  we  now  to  see  upon  it  more  of  reality  than  ever 
the  stage  could  give?  Or  is  it  to  be  the  theatre  of 
imagination,  of  vigorous  beauty,  which  has  battled  with 
realism  for  twenty  years?  Or  something  so  different 
from  what  we  have  known  in  the  theatre  of  the  past, 
from  what  we  may  know  in  the  future,  that  it  will  be  the 
eighth  art? 

Whatever  the  ultimate  place  of  the  motion  picture, 
its  relation  to  the  quarrel  of  the  realist  and  the  artist  of 
imagination  is  full  of  curious  significance.  The  screen, 
no  less  than  the  stage,  has  shown  both  tendencies.  It 
began  with  romantic  melodramas  of  today.  It  veered 
off  into  spectacular  costume  productions.  In  the  work 
of  the  late  George  Loane  Tucker,  a  director  of  very 
great  promise,  it  developed  an  aptitude  for  expressing 
spiritual  ideas,  as  well  as  character,  in  terms  of  our  own 
life.  Lately  the  contributions  of  German  directors 
who  got  their  training  in  drama  on  Reinhardt's  stage, 
have  leavened  our  general  run  of  humdrum,  drearily 
sentimental  realism  with  sharp  and  colorful  attempts 
at  expressionism  such  as  The  Cabinet  of  Dr.  Caligari 
and  The  Golem  and  with  colorful  historical  films  such 
as  Passion  (Du  Barry) ,  and  Deception,  (Anne  Boleyn). 

Five  years  ago,  when  the  way  of  the  imaginative  artist 
was  thorny  and  barren  everywhere  but  in  Germany  and 
Russia,  I  felt  that  the  future  of  his  work  lay  on  the 

179 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

screen.  This  was,  I  suspect,  an  attempt  to  find  some 
opening  for  him,  however  restricted,  in  the  blank  walls 
of  managerial  ignorance  and  indifference.  The  rea- 
sons I  advanced  were  so  cogent  that  I  am  rather  inclined 
to  think  that  though  it  might  be  a  better  solution  of  the 
old  quarrel  to  leave  the  screen  to  realism,  and  the  stage 
to  the  newer  art,  the  two  will  probably  reflect  both  ten- 
dencies in  the  future  as  they  have  in  the  past. 

Any  one  who  has  observed  modern  "art  photog- 
raphy" (how  disquieting  it  is  to  read  of  "art  photog- 
raphy" and  "art  theatres"  but  never  of  "art  opera"  or 
"art  painting")  or  seen  some  of  the  better  film  work 
of  D.  W.  Griffith's  photographers,  Bitzer  and  Sartov, 
knows  the  photographic  beauty  that  can  be  added 
to  the  ancient  charms  of  line,  mass  and  contrast.  If  he 
knows  the  screen,  he  knows  how  dramatically — if  sel- 
dom, and  apparently  by  accident — the  interpretative 
power  of  design,  which  the  artist  of  the  new  stagecraft 
preaches,  has  been  made  to  serve  random  scenes.  He 
knows,  too,  the  almost  unlimited  powers  of  trick  pho- 
tography in  achieving  miraculous  and  superhuman  ef- 
fects. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and  significant  develop- 
ments of  Joseph  Urban's  expedition  into  film  work  has 
been  his  achievement  of  remarkably  illusive  exteriors 
from  settings  built  either  full  size  or  as  models,  or  even 
painted  in  two-dimensions  and  photographed  in  the 
studio.    To  the  beauties  of  nature  and  of  architecture, 

1 80 


THE  CURTAIN  BECOMES  THE  STAGE 

in  which  the  screen  can  so  obviously  outdistance  the 
stage,  must  be  added  an  exact  reproduction  of  an  artist's 
sketched  conception,  correct  in  design  and  perspective 
for  every  patron  in  the  picture  theatre.  Even  though 
the  stage  artist  gives  up  two-dimensional  painting  and 
falls  back  on  solid  plastic  reality,  the  ideal  composition 
that  he  sees  in  his  mind's  eye  and  sketches  upon  paper 
can  only  be  true  for  a  very  few  spectators  seated,  as  it 
were  at  the  focal  point  of  his  vision.  The  motion  pic- 
ture camera  can  be  placed  at  that  point,  the  scene  fixed 
photographically  in  exactly  the  composition  desired, 
and  this  picture  reproduced  endlessly  and  at  will  in  any 
theatre  where  films  are  projected. 

Two  other  technical  considerations  are  worth  at- 
tention. For  one  thing,  it  is  obvious  that  if  the  sim- 
plification of  the  new  stagecraft  is  desirable  in  the 
theatre,  it  is  immensely  more  desirable  on  the  screen, 
where  the  only  means  of  holding  the  attention  is  visual 
and  any  cluttering  up  of  the  scene  with  detail  dis- 
tracts the  eye  from  the  actor.  In  another  regard,  the 
facilities  of  the  screen  will  aid  the  artist,  instead  of  the 
artist  aiding  the  screen.  The  artist  of  the  photoplay 
has  thirty,  fifty,  eighty  scenes  of  different  compositions 
to  create,  compared  to  the  three  or  four  of  a  play.  This 
is  important  because  the  purpose  of  the  artist  is  to 
suit  the  atmosphere  of  a  scene  to  the  emotion  of  its 
action,  and  almost  no  scene  of  any  great  length  can 
maintain  the  same  emotion.     The  imaginative  play 

181 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

tends  to  break  up  into  shorter  scenes  than  the  realistic, 
because  through  this  it  is  enabled  to  maintain  a  more 
perfect  mood.  The  photoplay  breaks  up  because  of  its 
very  nature.  The  imaginative  drama  tends  naturally 
towards  action  as  well  as  toward  beauty.  Though 
poetry  of  words  must  always  remain  the  province  of  the 
stage,  until  a  super-phonograph  of  far  greater  natural- 
ness than  ours  makes  synchronization  of  speech  and  film 
not  only  possible  but  bearable,  the  poetry  of  action  goes 
over  easily  and  directly  and  far  more  powerfully  into 
the  swift-running  film. 

Looking  at  the  nature  of  the  theatre,  it  seemed  to  me 
once — and  the  thesis  might  still  be  maintained — that 
the  drama  is  naturally  and  ideally  a  parochial  art,  and 
that  a  parochial  art  must  be  a  realistic  art.  Made  espe- 
cially for  a  single  community,  it  must  specialize  in  the 
things  closest  to  that  community.  Superficially,  these 
seem  to  be  the  realistic  details  of  life.  It  has  only  oc- 
curred to  us  during  the  past  year  or  two  that  our  life 
of  today  may  be  seen  through  other  glasses  than  the 
realistic. 

As  to  realism  and  its  natural  accompaniments,  in- 
terpretation, morals,  and  thesis,  the  motion  picture  is 
international,  and  morals  are  notoriously  a  matter  of 
geography.  Considering  the  breadth  and  range  of  the 
film  audience,  one  must  admit  that  the  level  of  its  art, 
morally  speaking,  must  be  the  dead  level  of  platitude. 
The  movies,  as  Shaw  said,  will  tend  to  express  "what 

182 


THE  CURTAIN  BECOMES  THE  STAGE 

an  agricultural  laborer  thinks  right,  and  what  an  old- 
fashioned  governess  thinks  properly  sentimental." 

If  I  feel  now  that  this  analysis  was  hardly  complete, 
it  is  because  recent  events  on  screen  and  stage  have 
demonstrated  that  realism  and  the  thesis  have  unusual 
possibilities  in  the  films,  and  that  theatrical  history  has 
moved  very  swiftly  in  favor  of  even  more  radical  new 
methods  of  production  than  the  first  practitioners  of 
the  new  stagecraft  imagined. 

The  power  of  the  screen  to  be  literally  exact,  both 
pictorially  and  humanly,  to  give  us  the  absolute  and  in- 
timate actuality  of  our  life,  is  more  than  evident.  When 
we  watch  the  work  of  a  director  such  as  Griffith,  we  do 
not  see  life  with  the  fourth  wall  removed;  we  see  life, 
fourth  wall  and  all.  We  are  actually  in  the  midst  of 
life.  It  follows,  therefore,  that  it  is  within  the  power 
of  the  director  to  preach — whether  or  not  it  is  within 
the  disposition  of  his  international  audience  to  accept. 
He  can  draw  his  deductions  from  actuality  and  rein- 
force them  by  the  lettered  dialogue  of  the  screen;  in 
fact  he  can  go  beyond  dialogue,  and  inject  his  own  re- 
flections independent  of  his  characters. 

What  the  screen  cannot  do  that  the  stage  can  do,  is 
to  follow  the  newest  and  the  freshest  trend  of  the  artist 
in  the  theatre.  It  cannot  escape  from  representation; 
it  cannot  present  actor,  costumes,  properties,  draperies 
and  architectural  settings  frankly  for  what  they  are — 
things  that  speak  out  of  their  substance  and  material, 

183 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

and  not  through  something  that  they  try  to  imitate  or 
suggest.  It  cannot  recover  the  spirit  that  animated  all 
theatrical  production,  Greek  or  mediaeval,  Shakespear- 
ean or  Georgian,  before  realism  introduced  photo- 
graphic representation  of  life.  The  screen  is  inherently 
representative  .  .  .  second-hand.  It  must  photograph 
something  and  create  the  illusion  of  it  in  two-dimen- 
sions on  the  screen.  Even  if  it  photographs  the  new  type 
of  production — the  "presentational,"  to  borrow  Bak- 
shy's  word  from  his  Path  of  the  Modern  Russian  Stage 
— what  we  have  is  a  representation  of  the  actual  actor 
and  the  surrounding  materials.  They  do  not  speak  to 
us  directly. 

Linked  with  this  consideration  is  the  fact  that  while 
the  camera  can  give  us  every  sense  of  looking  through 
the  proscenium  frame  at  a  slice  of  life  it  cannot  give 
us  the  stimulant  of  a  presentational  theatre  of  new  levels 
and  relations,  forestages,  portals,  actors  appearing  from 
among  the  audience,  the  immense  variety  of  visual  and 
oral  forms  which  the  new  theatre  is  opening  up  for  the 
playwright  of  the  future.  The  screen  can  do  every- 
thing that  the  realistic  theatre  can  do;  it  cannot  com- 
pass all  the  possibilities  of  the  imaginative  theatre, 
though  it  may  go  beyond  them  in  certain  directions. 

From  which  I  am  drawn  to  conclude  that,  though 
realism  may  depend  more  and  more  upon  the  films,  the 
screen  and  the  stage  will  share  to  a  great  extent  in  the 
exploitation  of  the  two  types  of  drama.    The  screen  and 

184 


THE  CURTAIN  BECOMES  THE  STAGE 

the  stage  draw  slightly  different  audiences,  and  it  may 
be  that  the  more  experimental,  the  more  advanced  and 
the  more  responsive  audiences  will  be  found  in  the 
theatre;  but,  however  that  may  be,  it  seems  reasonably 
likely  that  the  more  representational  aspects  of  the  new 
stagecraft  and  the  types  of  plays  it  stands  for  will  de- 
velop on  the  screen  at  the  same  time  that  they  develop 
on  the  stage.  "Movements,"  if  they  amount  to  any- 
thing, have  their  roots  in  the  audience  as  much  as  in  the 
artists  and  producers.  They  are  general  and  extend 
from  one  art  to  another,  even  when  these  arts  are 
further  separated  than  the  stage  and  the  screen.  Had 
the  photoplay  existed  in  1830  it  would  have  felt  the 
impact  of  the  romantic  movement  quite  as  much  as  did 
the  stage. 


1 8s 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  NEXT  THEATRE. 

FOR  fifty  years  our  theatre  has  been  steadily  and 
slowly  working  over  from  the  bizarre  operatic 
structure  set  upon  the  drama  of  Europe  by  the 
bursting  luxuriance  of  the  seventeenth  century  Italian 
courts  towards  a  reticent  auditorium  which  should  dis- 
play, upon  an  illusively  lighted  stage  within  a  frame, 
a  realistic  representation  of  life.  At  last  in  the  work 
of  American  architects  like  Ingalls  and  Blackall  and 
Germans  like  Oskar  Kaufmann,  in  such  theatres  as 
Henry  Miller's  and  Maxine  Elliott's  in  New  York,  and 
the  Hebbel  Theater  and  the  Volksbuhne  in  Berlin,  we 
have  reached  a  form  appropriate  to  the  purposes  of  the 
nineteenth  century  drama  instead  of  to  the  masques, 
pageants,  ballets  and  operas  which  absorbed  the  ener- 
gies of  the  Italian  courts  two  centuries  before,  and 
which  shaped  that  ornate  gilt  and  plaster  shell  into 
which  the  drama  that  followed  Shakespeare  and  Mo- 
liere  was  thoughtless  enough  to  slip. 

For  a  hundred  years  scattered  artists,  architects  and 
directors  have  been  fighting  both  the  court  opera  house 
and  the  modern  peep-show  theatre  in  an  endeavor  to 

1 86 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

create  still  another  form  of  playhouse — a  structure  nei- 
ther as  absurd  as  the  opera  house  nor  as  limiting  as  the 
picture  frame  stage;  that  is,  a  playhouse  not  narrowly 
archaeologic,  yet  instinct  with  the  live  and  healthy  the- 
atricalism  of  the  Elizabethan  stage,  the  dignity  and 
grandeur  of  the  Greek;  a  theatre  fitted  to  every  exigency 
of  theatrical  presentation;  a  theatre  for  the  future  as 
well  as  the  past;  a  theatre  for  the  drama  that  grows 
tired  of  the  limitations  of  realism. 

All  this  effort  towards  a  new  playhouse  to  succeed 
the  present  theatre  as  the  present  theatre  succeeded  the 
theatre  of  Garrick,  of  Shakespeare,  of  the  mystery 
plays,  and  of  Greek  tragedy,  has  evolved  no  more  than 
three  definitely  and  completely  functioning  houses;  but 
it  has  left  a  great  mass  of  most  interesting  and  fecund 
and  significant  experiment  and  suggestion.  Up  to  the 
past  ten  years  most  of  it  was  German;  and  most  of  it 
was  busy  with  discreet  modifications  of  the  existing 
features  of  theatrical  architecture. 

The  first  indication  of  a  change  in  the  conception  of 
the  relations  of  auditorium  and  stage  reaches  back  to 
that  great  practical  force  in  the  theatre,  Goethe.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  past  century  he  associated  himself 
with  a  remarkable  and  innovating  architect,  Carl 
Friedrich  Schinkel  in  theories  and  projects  which  ulti- 
mately resulted  in  the  plans  for  the  theatre  in  Weimar 
with  which  Goethe's  name  is  still  associated.  The  ob- 
ject of  Goethe,  imbued  with  sudden  enthusiasm  over  the 

.87 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

discovery  that  Shakespeare  did  not  write  for  a  stage 
of  definite  scenes,  was  to  bring  back  the  apron  and 
renew  the  intercourse  of  spectator  and  actor.  Schin- 
kel's  plans  for  recreating  the  forestage  had  perhaps 
little  effect  upon  the  Italianate  playhouses  of  his  day; 
but  in  the  light  of  twentieth  century  effort  they  are  most 
suggestive.  They  proved  the  forerunner  of  much  ex- 
periment in  Germany  before  Max  Littmann,  Georg 
Fuchs  and  others  definitely  established  the  forestage 
and  its  portals  as  essential  to  imaginative  drama. 

As  Schinkel  worked  with  Goethe,  so  Gottfried  Sem- 
per, the  other  outstanding  theatre  architect  of  nine- 
teenth century  Germany,  found  association  with  a  great 
creative  dramatist  and  director,  Wagner.  With  him 
Semper  labored  upon  the  problem  of  the  proscenium, 
evolving  the  "mystic  abyss"  or  neutral  and  empty  frame 
between  auditorium  and  stage,  which  Wagner  desired 
as  a  means  of  heightening  the  illusion  of  another  world. 
Since  that  attempt  to  remove  the  actor  from  the  reality 
of  contact  with  his  audience  amounts  in  one  way  to 
the  perfecting  of  the  picture-frame  idea,  it  seems  to 
me  that  Semper's  greatest  contribution  lay  rather  in 
his  work  upon  the  auditorium  itself.  There  he  devel- 
oped Schinkel's  idea  of  seating  the  audience  in  a  sin- 
gle, steeply  rising  bank,  somewhat  after  the  manner 
of  the  Greeks,  and  thus  bringing  the  spectators  into 
closer  spiritual  relation  with  one  another  as  well  as 
with  the  stage. 

788 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

In  Max  Littmann,  the  greatest  theorist  and  builder 
of  the  modern  German  theatre,  the  "Rang  versus  Ring" 
idea  of  substituting  a  single,  unified  and  well-graded 
bank  of  seats  for  the  aristocratic,  anti-social  and  visu- 
ally bad  arrangement  of  superimposed  galleries,  finds 
its  warmest  and  strongest  support.  But  Littmann's  ef- 
forts have  gone  into  more  extensive  and  original  reform 
in  his  "adaptable  proscenium,"  which  combines  the 
ordinary  realistic  picture  frame  and  the  Wagner  "mys- 
tic abyss"  with  a  forestage  and  entrances  in  the  pro- 
scenium frame.  More  than  a  dozen  theatres  in  Ger- 
many now  testify  to  Littmann's  fruitful  experiments 
with  stage,  proscenium  and  auditorium,  notably  the 
Schiller  Theater  in  Charlottenburg,  the  twin  theatres 
of  Stuttgart  and  the  Munich  Kunstler  Theater.  His  re- 
forms have  remade  both  auditorium  and  stage,  combin- 
ing them  in  a  perfected  structure  that  goes  as  far 
towards  the  new  playhouse  as  you  can  go  without  cast- 
ing aside  all  resemblance  to  our  familiar  theatre. 

When  the  catastrophe  of  the  Great  War  fell  upon 
the  theatres  of  Europe,  Germany  was  manifestly  ready 
for  experiments  along  far  more  radical  lines.  The 
various  schemes  for  Shakespearean  stages,  forestages, 
portals,  permanent  settings  and  inner  prosceniums, 
which  I  have  described  in  Chapter  IX,  all  tended  to- 
wards the  development  of  both  spectators  and  direc- 
tors who  were  eager  for  experiment  on  lines  leading 
away  from  the  realistic  theatre  and  towards  a  new  form 

189 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

of  playhouse.  At  least  two  significant  German  experi- 
ments preceded  the  war. 

One  was  in  a  place  and  an  institution  quite  apart 
from  the  commercial  theatre — the  great  hall  of  the 
Jaques-Dalcroze  School  of  Eurythmics  in  Hellerau 
near  Dresden.  There  in  the  great  hall  of  the  group  of 
handsome  buildings  where  Dalcroze  taught  his  new 
system  of  musical  and  bodily  education  through  move- 
ment, curious  and  revolutionary  experiments  took  place. 
Dalcroze  brought  to  his  assistance  two  remarkable  men : 
one  was  A.  von  Salzmann,  reputed  the  greatest  author- 
ity on  lighting  in  the  European  theatre,  whom  Maurice 
Browne  calls  "the  master  of  us  all";  the  other,  that 
pioneering  giant,  Adolphe  Appia,  who  here  had  his 
first  opportunity  to  work  unhampered  on  the  practical 
details  of  production.  Rejected  in  his  home,  Russia, 
Salzmann  found  success  in  Germany. 

The  hall,  which  was  designed  by  Heinrich  Tessenow, 
combined  both  stage  and  auditorium  in  a  single  oblong 
room.  Whatever  served  as  stage  and  setting  was  placed 
at  one  end.  The  other  end  of  the  room  was  occupied 
by  the  banked  seats  of  the  audience.  Except  for  an 
•open  space  of  shining  floor,  there  was  no  division  be- 
tween the  spectators  and  the  stage,  not  even  the  division 
of  lighting.  Both  the  audience  and  the  setting  were 
illumined  by  the  same  lambent  and  mysterious  glow 
proceeding  from  the  translucent  walls  around,  behind, 
and  above  them.    These  walls  were  of  something  re- 

190 


THE  DAI.CROZE  PLAYHOUSE 
The  remarkable  hall  in  the  Eurhythmic  School  at  Hellerau,  near  Dresden, 
where  Adolphe  Appia  produced  Claudel's  l.'Annonre  faite  a  Marie  in  association 
with  Jaques-Dalcroze  and  Alexander  von  Salzmann,  the  lighting  expert.  In  the 
upper  picture  is  the  stage-scene  built  into  one  end  of  the  room;  in  the  lower,  the 
seats  of  the  spectators  at  the  other  end.  Through  translucent  walls  of  silk,  the 
light  of  10,000  electric  bulbs  plays  upon  stage   and  audience  alike. 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

sembling  balloon  silk,  covered  with  cedar  oil;  behind 
this  surface  were  batteries  of  some  10,000  bulbs  so  ar- 
ranged and  circuited  as  to  permit  all  manner  of  shades 
and  gradations  of  light.  Frank  E.  Washburn  Freund 
in  the  English  Stage  Yearbook  for  1914  graphically 
describes  this  illumination  as  "a  diffused  light  resem- 
bling daylight  without  visible  sun."  The  stage  and  the 
scene  were  identical  and  consisted  merely  of  a  complex 
of  movable  platforms  and  steps,  supplemented  by  sim- 
ple flats  and  hangings.  These  could  be  rearranged  al- 
most endlessly.  With  these  materials  Appia,  Dalcroze 
and  Salzmann  created  the  setting  for  Paul  Claudel's 
L'Annonce  faite  a  Marie  illustrated  on  another  page. 
The  other  radical  experiment  towards  a  new  play- 
house was  made  by  Max  Reinhardt  in  his  productions 
of  CEdipus  Rex  by  Sophocles,  Orestes,  The  Miracle, 
Hauptmann's  Festspiel,  and  Everyman  in  circuses,  and 
led  finally  to  his  remodeling  of  one  of  these  circus 
buildings  into  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  in  Berlin. 
The  circus  in  Europe  is  not  the  tented  carnival  we  know 
in  America.  It  is  a  mixture  of  variety  and  athletic 
show  housed  in  a  permanent  building  rather  like  Madi- 
son Square  Garden.  It  frequently  utilizes  gauze  scen- 
ery around  its  inner  ring,  which,  when  lighted  from 
within,  becomes  transparent  on  the  side  of  the  ring 
nearest  the  spectator  and  shows  opaque  on  the  other  side 
of  the  house  as  background  or  scenery  for  the  perform- 
ance.    Reinhardt  discarded   the  transparent  scenery, 

191 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

and  blotted  out  his  audience  in  darkness,  lighting  only 
the  centre  of  the  circus,  in  which  his  actors  appeared, 
and  one  end  of  the  building,  where  they  made  their 
exits  and  their  entrances.  The  success  of  these  presenta- 
tions, particularly  of  (Edipus,  was  tremendous;  for 
Reinhardt  drew  from  the  proximity  of  his  audience  to 
the  immense  crowd  of  actors  in  its  midst  a  new  and 
extraordinary  intimacy  combined  with  grandeur  and 
power.  CEdipus  was  first  mounted  in  1910  and  was 
shown  to  3 17,000  people  in  93  performances  in  26  cities ; 
at  least  50,000  spectators  gained  admittance  at  less  than 
a  quarter  a  head. 

Here,  as  elsewhere,  it  can  hardly  be  denied  that  Rein- 
hardt drew  inspiration  from  Craig,  who  dreamed  thus 
of  what  the  German  producer  created  in  his  Theatre 
of  the  Five  Thousand:  "I  see  a  great  building  to  seat 
many  thousands  of  people.  At  one  end  rises  a  platform 
of  heroic  size  on  which  figures  of  a  heroic  mould  shall 
move.  The  scene  shall  be  such  as  the  world  shows  us, 
not  as  our  own  particular  little  street  shows  us.  The 
movements  of  these  scenes  shall  be  noble  and  great:  all 
shall  be  illuminated  by  a  light  such  as  the  spheres  give 
us,  not  such  as  the  footlights  give  us,  but  such  as  we 
dream  of." 

The  philosophy  back  of  the  Theatre  of  the  Five 
Thousand  is  described  by  Reinhardt's  literary  director, 
Arthur  Kahane,  in  the  following  passage  translated  by 

192 


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aj   rt    J3 

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>,  5    t" 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

Huntley  Carter  from  Die  Blatter  des  Deutschen  Thea- 
ters and  printed  in  his  Theatre  of  Max  Reinhardt: 

"The  first  law  of  the  new  theatre  is  utmost  simplicity. 
Apart  from  the  consideration  that  there  is  no  time  for 
complicated  changes,  the  vast  space  demands  the  sim- 
plest of  forms  and  strong,  big,  severe  lines.  All  acces- 
sories are  superfluous;  they  cannot  possibly  be  noticed, 
or,  if  they  are,  they  are  a  source  of  distraction.  At  the 
most  scenic  decoration  can  only  be  frame,  not  func- 
tion. The  elaboration  of  details,  the  emphasising  of 
nuances  disappear;  the  actor  and  the  actor's  voice  are 
truly  essential,  while  lighting  becomes  the  real  source 
of  decoration,  its  single  aim  being  to  bring  the  impor- 
tant into  the  light,  and  to  leave  the  unimportant  in  the 
shadow. 

"Thus  the  effects  are  simplified  and  heightened  ac- 
cording to  the  need  of  monumentality.  Under  the  in- 
fluence of  these  mighty  spaces,  these  big,  severe  lines, 
all  that  is  small  and  petty  disappears,  and  it  becomes  a 
matter  of  course  to  appeal  to  the  hearts  of  great  audi- 
ences with  the  strongest  and  deepest  elements.  The 
petty  and  unimportant — elements  that  are  not  eternal  in 
us — cease  to  have  effect.  This  theatre  can  only  express 
the  great  eternal  elemental  passions  and  the  problems 
of  humanity.  In  it,  spectators  cease  to  be  mere  specta- 
tors; they  become  the  people;  their  emotions  are  sim- 
ple and  primitive,  but  great  and  powerful,  as  becomes 
the  eternal  human  race. 

*93 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

"Many  things  that  appear  to  most  people  to  be  insep- 
arable from  the  theatre  are  being  discarded.  No  cur- 
tain separates  stage  and  auditorium.  On  entering  the 
theatre  the  spectator  feels  and  is  impressed  by  the  possi- 
bilities of  space,  and  the  essential  mood  is  created  in 
him  to  be  preserved  after  the  piece  has  begun.  No 
small,  strongly  circumscribed,  impassable  frame  sepa- 
rates the  action  of  the  play  from  the  outer  world,  and 
the  action  flows  freely  through  the  whole  of  the  theatre. 
The  peep-show  character  of  the  'scene,'  which  was 
known  neither  to  the  stage  of  the  ancients,  to  the  Shakes- 
pearean stage,  nor  to  the  Molierean  stage,  and  which 
to  people  of  a  conservative  frame  of  mind  is  still  the 
highest  point  of  theatrical  art,  simply  because  they  are 
not  aware  that  they  merely  worship  a  fossilised  frag- 
ment of  Italian  opera  and  ballet  tradition,  has  van- 
ished. The  chorus  arises  and  moves  in  the  midst  of  the 
audience;  the  characters  meet  each  other  amid  the  spec- 
tators; from  all  sides  the  hearer  is  being  impressed,  so 
that  gradually  he  becomes  part  of  the  whole,  and  is 
rapidly  absorbed  in  the  action,  a  member  of  the  chorus, 
so  to  speak.  The  close  contact  (intimacy)  is  the  chief 
feature  of  the  new  form  of  the  stage.  It  makes  the 
spectator  a  part  of  the  action,  secures  his  entire  inter- 
est, and  intensifies  the  effect  upon  him. 

"Big  spaces  compel  the  unfolding  of  personality.  It 
is  in  these  that  men  develop  their  best  and  final  power. 
Though  separated  by  great  distances,  men  still  face 

194 


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2  E 

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S  E~ 

-  8w 


E  E 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

each  other,  and  inevitably  the  conflicting  feeling  arises 
as  to  who  is  the  stronger  personality.  Here  strength 
and  passion  become  the  predominating  qualities,  the 
quintessence  of  tragedy,  the  conflict  of  personalities,  the 
two  dramatic  elements  contained  in  and  transmitted  by 
space.  It  is  thus  possible  to  rediscover  a  feeling  which 
has  been  lost  to  us,  but  without  losing  that  process  of 
greater  intimacy  which  seems  to  me  the  most  useful  re- 
sult of  the  late  naturalistic  movement  in  the  theatre. 
For  through  the  close  contact  with  the  spectator,  who, 
metaphorically  speaking,  can  feel  the  warm  breath  of 
dramatic  art,  the  actor  will  be  compelled  to  draw  from 
the  well  of  his  deepest  experience.  There  is  no  better 
proof  of  the  genuineness  of  power  and  feeling  exerted 
than  to  come  successfully  through  this  ordeal  in  this 
^pace  before  the  said  spectator. 

"Of  course  it  will  come  easiest  to  actors  who  possess 
a  musical  temperament,  for  music  is  inherent  in  human 
beings,  and  by  music  we  may  reach  the  heart  of  the 
vastest  crowds.  In  the  midst  of  the  strongest  accents 
of  human  passions,  and  the  powerful  logic  of  the 
dramatic  struggle,  which  will  always  form  the  most  im- 
portant part  of  this  side  of  theatrical  art,  pauses  are 
imperative.  It  is  the  function  of  music  to  fill  them  in, 
either  alone  or  in  the  form  of  the  rhythmic  chorus.  By 
means  of  music  this  theatre  will  retain  its  dual  charac- 
ter of  the  festive  and  the  grave." 

This  then  is  the  ideal  of  the  Theatre  of  the  Five 

i9S 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Thousand  which  may  be  presumed  to  dominate  the 
Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  in  which  Reinhardt's  desire  for 
a  new  playhouse  took  its  completest  form.  This  huge 
building  retains  the  elements  of  the  circus  performances 
and  combines  them  with  many  features  of  the  theatre 


reinhardt's  grosses  schauspielhaus 
Showing  the   seating    arrangement    above   the   orchestra,    in   which  the 
actors  appear. 

of  the  past.  The  audience,  something  over  three  thou- 
sand in  number,  is  seated  in  one  bank  of  seats  surround- 
ing the  acting  space.  This  space  is  first  of  all  the  or- 
chestra, as  in  the  ancient  Greek  theatre.  There,  upon 
the  floor  of  the  auditorium,  in  the  midst  of  the  specta- 
tors, passes  much  of  the  most  intimate  action  and  there 
the  great  mobs  move.    They  gain  access  to  this  space 

196 


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PLAN    OF   THE    GROSSES   SCHAUSPIELHAUS 

The  stage,  the  forestages  A,  B,  and  C,  and  the  orchestra  can  be  raised 
or  lowered  a  number  of  feet  at  will.     Hans  Poelzig,  architect. 

197 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

from  runways  passing  beneath  the  seats  of  the  audience 
and  from  portals  near  the  stage  proper.  The  stage  it- 
self is  a  huge  affair,  as  large  as  any  in  common  use  in 
Berlin,  and  equipped  with  plaster  dome,  revolving 
stage  and  curtain.  From  the  stage,  which  itself  may 
be  built  up  into  various  levels,  steps  and  platforms  lead 
down  into  the  orchestra.  Thus  the  house  combines  the 
essential  feature  of  the  Greek  theatre,  the  orchestra 
in  the  midst  of  the  spectators,  with  the  essential  feature 
of  the  modern  theatre,  the  mechanically  perfect  stage. 

Reinhardt's  productions  in  the  Grosses  Schauspiel- 
haus  have  ranged  from  (Edipus  and  Orestes  to  Hamlet 
and  Goetz  von  Berlichingen,  from  Aristophanes  to 
Hauptmann.  One  of  his  notable  successes  was  Romain 
Rolland's  Danton,  the  tremendous  excitement  of  the 
final  scene  of  the  revolutionary  tribunal — with  the  mob 
filling  the  orchestra  and  actors  scattered  even  amongst 
the  spectators — atoning  for  the  inappropriateness  of  the 
two  earlier  scenes  in  Robespierre's  and  Desmoulins's 
rooms  to  the  great  distances  of  this  theatre. 

It  is  absurd  to  take  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  for  a 
perfected  specimen  of  the  theatre  of  tomorrow.  It  is, 
on  the  face  of  it,  too  complete  a  compromise  between 
the  Greek  theatre  and  the  modern  deep  stage.  The 
effects  of  frank  and  overpowering  theatricalism  which 
Reinhardt  achieves  in  the  orchestra  tends  to  make  much 
of  his  use  of  the  inner  stage  and  its  scenery  seem  tri- 
fling.   In  this  magnificently  new  building  critics  were 

198 


n  "3 

Q  f. 

^  &  z. 


z    ~  ■     ~ 


From  The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine 

reinhardt's  projected  festspielhaus 
Plan  and  section  of  the  theatre  to  be  built  in  Salzburg  after  designs  by 
Hanz  Poelzig.     The  orchestra  will  be  used  by  the  actors  as  in  the  Grosses 
Schauspielhaus.     The  seats  continue  up  over  the  foyers. 


199 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

particularly  annoyed  by  Reinhardt's  foolish  and  trivial 
attempt  to  project  real  clouds  upon  the  plaster  dome 
in  his  production  of  Julius  C&sar.  The  final  emphasis, 
however,  should  be  on  his  tendency  to  desert  the  deep 
stage  and  play  even  interior  scenes  in  the  orchestra. 

From  this  venture  Reinhardt  has  gone  on  to  plan 
a  more  perfect  structure  of  the  sort  in  a  place  where 
the  temptation  or  the  necessity  of  pandering  to  an  un- 
trained audience  will  be  less  than  in  Berlin.  At  Salz- 
burg, in  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  is  to  be  erected,  if  funds 
can  be  found  in  bankrupt  Central  Europe,  a  Festspiel- 
haus  or  festival  playhouse  for  the  creation  of  new 
drama  and  new  music-drama  as  well  as  the  reinterpre- 
tation  of  the  old.  Reinhardt  is  to  act  as  director,  and 
with  him,  in  residence  in  the  old  town,  will  be  Hugo 
von  Hofmannsthahl,  the  playwright,  and  Richard 
Strauss,  the  composer.  Together  these  three  will  at- 
tempt to  create  a  Bayreuth  of  the  modern  theatre. 

The  preliminary  sketches  which  Hanz  Poelzig,  arch- 
itect of  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  has  made  for  the 
Salzburg  project,  picture  a  strange  structure  handled  in 
the  rococo  style  associated  historically  with  Salzburg 
and  its  great  artist,  Mozart.  Its  central  building,  seat- 
ing 2,000,  will  be  connected  with  its  smaller  theatre, 
the  Mozart  Spielhaus,  and  with  other  portions  of  the 
park  in  which  it  is  set,  by  winding,  tentacle-like  colon- 
nades. The  plan  of  the  Festspielhaus  calls  for  a  smaller 
and  less  conventional  stage  than  at  the  Grosses  Schau- 

200 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

spielhaus;  orchestra  and  stage  will  be  brought  into 
closer  harmony. 

Attempts  to  create  the  new  playhouse  have  been 
fewer  outside  Germany.  In  only  one  case,  the  case  of 
Jacques  Copeau  and  his  Theatre  du  Vieux  Colombier, 
have  they  been  notably  successful;  but  in  that  case,  I 
feel,  in  spite  of  no  attempt  to  range  wide  or  gain  the 
splendid  proportions  of  mass-action,  the  end  has  been 
most  notably  attained.  The  bare  stage  of  Copeau  has 
been  brought  to  Berlin  in  the  Tribune  Theater. 

The  nearest  parallel  to  Reinhardt  for  size  and  gran- 
deur of  conception — outside  the  frankly  imitative  pro- 
ductions of  CEdipe,  roi  de  Thebes  and  of  spectacles  by 
Gemier  in  Paris — is  the  masque  form  and  the  open- 
air  auditorium  created  by  Percy  MacKaye  in  America. 
In  his  Masque  of  St.  Louis  and  his  Caliban,  MacKaye 
has  gone  far  towards  charting  some  of  the  essentials  of 
the  mass-theatre  of  the  future.  In  these  wind-blown 
and  gigantic  entertainments,  he  has  reposed  an  unfor- 
tunate reliance  on  the  spoken  word  and  neither  his  verse 
nor  his  prose  has  had  the  simplicity  and  vigor  that  such 
a  form  of  entertainment  demands.  But  in  his  imagina- 
tion he  has  seen  truly  the  possibility  of  community 
drama,  of  magnificent  communal  spectacles  fused  of 
color  and  movement,  art  and  humanity. 

MacKaye  is  the  natural  inheritor  of  grand  theatrical 
conceptions  from  an  extraordinary  father,  Steele  Mac- 
Kaye.   As  I  noted  elsewhere,  the  elder  MacKaye  had 

201 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

planned  and  partially  built  for  the  Chicago  World's 
Fair  in  1893  a  gargantuan  playhouse  called  the  Spec- 
tatorium.  In  it  was  to  be  enacted  a  new  form  of  drama 
composed  of  pantomime  and  music,  words  spoken  and 
sung,  called  The  World  Finder  and  celebrating  Co- 
lumbus. Dvorak  and  Victor  Herbert  were  to  write 
the  music.  The  building  was  to  cover  a  space  five  hun- 
dred feet  long  by  four  hundred  wide  and  was  to  be  two 
hundred  and  seventy  feet  in  height.  The  proscenium 
was  to  be  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  by  seventy,  and  the 
sky  at  the  back  of  the  stage  four  hundred  by  a  hundred 
and  twenty.  The  auditorium  was  to  seat  10,000.  By 
an  unprecedented  array  of  mechanical  appliances, 
movable  stages  running  on  miles  of  tracks,  water  tanks, 
etc.,  all  manner  of  gigantic  scenes  and  "effects"  were  to 
be  obtained.  Financial  difficulties  prevented  the  com- 
pletion of  the  Spectatorium;  but  a  large  model,  called 
the  Scenatorium,  was  completed  and  successfully  ex- 
hibited before  MacKaye's  death  in  1894. 

Other  minds  in  America  have  worked  upon  new 
forms  for  the  theatre.  Aline  Barnsdall,  for  the  new 
theatre  which  she  planned  to  build  in  Los  Angeles, 
called  in  America's  most  progressive  and  originating 
architect,  Frank  Lloyd  Wright.  The  preliminary  de- 
signs called  for  an  auditorium  like  none  yet  built.  The 
proscenium  was  to  be  adjustable  and  movable;  the  back 
of  the  stage  a  dome  curving  out  into  the  lines  of  the 
house.     Wright  designed   a   permanent  architectural 

202 


MAIN  HATURK  OF  A  THtAT PC  FOR  A  MORt  WASTIC  STYJE  OF  DRAM 

^^  .DESIGNED  BY  flOftMAN-BIL  GCDDES  1914 

n 


Tcket  of  ice/ 
foyer>elevc(tow 

Promiimde284 
feet  lone  MOf\. 
wide  I8jt.hi$b 
Emulators  to 

Upper  bromiwdp 

wbertrabiti* 
Invisible  below 

Jtepj  which  joift 
aoditorfum  and 
st«g>e'tfrf/mM,k 
penetrorinfthe 
f  em'fopw  row 

fcfrfJbmenH 
retiring  rooms 

Side  ball  and 
circularrtairx 
tolovwrtfrw 

CROMCTJM 

Furthest  seat  95 
feet  from  stage 
elevation  angle 
gives  unotxrtrucfa) 
view  over  beads 
of  people  in  front. 
An  outdoor  below 
onupperpromirKKje 

Ground  level- 

Rehearsal  rooms 
and  offices  are 
inthe  toweroo 
eornerof  building 
above  the  foyer 

BASEMENT  RAM 

Area  80  feet 
Square  for  sniff- 
ing of  xcenery 

Mechanics  sKob5 
«long>,  two  siiir 
of  building  on 
f  irst  level  below 
crourxl  reached  by 
elevatorj-orjfdir/ 

Dock  for  .second 
itage  where  it  is 
set  and  awaits 
itr  turn  to  slide 
into  the  comer 
and  be  raised  to 
the  auditorium 

Scale  in  feet 
~H0~   3Q^& 


m\wmm 

Ground  area  is 
162  feet  square 

yeatinfflcapati^ 
wMoufbolcony 
3604  oerxons* 
seats*  ZO  inch* 
wid  e'  16  inches- 
deeP'Witb  16 
InchMfootspuCP 

Srcwe  80  feet- 
deep  82f*  wide 

hflsnoproscenrero 
Pit  around  rear 
sta«e  for  actors 
and  electrical 

apparatus 

Dressing  rooms 
a  1 009  two  .sides 
of  tne  building 

Dome  formino; 
back  ground  for 
Stage  settings  en- 
velops audiforium 
instilling  in  tbe 
audience  a  more 
intimatecontact 
witb  tbe  stage  & 
when  illuminated 
the  color  would 
i  "T  spread  overtbe 
TW  audience  mak- 
'  Hf  »ng  them  feel 
as  tho  they  were 
in  the  scene. 

At  the  conclusion 
ofascenefbefihr 
itaoeisdrobped 
to  inebaf ement 
on  plungers  and 
\s  automatically 
runontracksto 
this  dock-tbe 
ptherStagebav- 
inq  previously 
been  set,slides 
intotbecorner 
position  and  is 
nstanftly  nuse4 
forium 
Tion  of 
ngsta 


to  audiforium 
iti 

jhoulanoTcon- 


Qperatio 
cha   ' 


5ame  nwrethoo 
a  minutes  time 


A    THEATRE    WITHOUT    A    PROSCENIUM 


Descriptive  plans  of  Geddes'  projected  playhouse,  with  the  stage  con- 
tained in  one  corner  of  the  auditorium.  In  the  upper  plan  the  left-hand 
lower  half  represents  the  promenade  level;  the  right-hand  upper  half,  thi 
auditorium  level  immediately  above.  The  stage,  in  the  right-hand  lowe/ 
corner,  sinks  into  the  basement  for  a  change  of  setting. 

203 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

background  in  a  wall  about  twelve  feet  high  running 
parallel  to  the  dome  and  a  short  distance  from  it. 

Norman-Bel  Geddes,  the  young  and  brilliant  de- 
signer, made  almost  his  first  contribution  to  the  stage 
a  plan  for  a  great  playhouse  of  even  more  remarkable 
design.  In  his  scheme,  devised  in  19 17,  the  stage  was 
to  become  a  part  of  the  auditorium.  The  audience, 
seated  diagonally  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  great 
domed  hall,  were  to  look  upon  simple  set-pieces,  plas- 
tic units,  architectural  details,  appearing  in  the  oppo- 
site corner  of  the  structure.  Behind  these  objects  the 
curving  wall — which  could  be  illuminated  as  a  sky- 
dome — would  reach  outward  and  upward  until  it  dis- 
appeared in  the  darkness  of  the  house.  During  the 
brief  intermissions,  while  the  theatre  was  plunged  in 
darkness,  the  section  of  the  floor  containing  the  setting 
would  be  lowered  into  the  basement,  the  setting  and  its 
rolling  platform  shoved  aside  and  another  setting,  al- 
ready prepared,  wheeled  into  place  and  raised  imme- 
diately, with  the  actors  upon  it,  up  into  the  theatre 
above. 

In  192 1,  upon  the  six  hundredth  anniversary  of 
the  death  of  Dante,  Geddes  set  to  work  upon  almost  as 
ambitious  a  project,  the  presentation  of  The  Divine 
Comedy  as  a  great  drama  of  light  and  words  in  Madi- 
son Square  Garden.  Here  he  schemed  to  build  a  gi- 
gantic and  adroitly  curving  pit  of  many  levels,  sur- 
rounded on  three  sides  by  the  audience,  and  rising  on 

204 


IHE    DIVINE    COMEDY — ARRANGEMENTS    BY    GEDDES 

Two  of  Norman-Bel  Geddes's  sketches  to  show  different  arrange- 
ments of  lights  and  people  during  the  progress  of  a  dramatization 
of  Dante.  The  design  of  the  permanent  stage  upon  which  this  is 
accomplished  is  shown  in  diagrams  on  pages  205  and  206  Above, 
Dante  and  Virgil  on  the  edge  of  the  pit  of  Hell.  Below,  Purgatory. 
Upon  two  plinths  on  either  side,  actors  hold  canvas  shapes  that  form 
the  outlines  of  devilish  or  of  angelic  wings. 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

the  fourth  against  a  gauze  background  which  would 
finally  be  brilliantly  stained  by  the  light  of  paradise. 


PLAN   FOR  THE  DIVINE  COMEDY 

Madison  Square  Garden   as   arranged  by  Norman-Bel   Geddes  for  his 
proposed  production  of  Dante's  Divine  Comedy. 

Upon  each  side  of  the  pit  next  to  the  gauze  would  stand 
two  gigantic  plinths  upon  which,  in  mysterious  lights 
and  silhouettes,   men  would   pose  great  demoniacal 

205 


THE    STAGE    FOR    THE   DIVINE    COMEDY 

Plan  and  section  of  the  curious,  doughnut-shaped  structure  upon  which 
the  action  of  Geddes'  projected  production  would  pass.  The  plinths  or 
towers  are  to  be  occupied  by  actors  carrying  huge  wings  and  other  decora- 
tions. Note  the  position  of  this  stage  in  the  plan  of  Madison  Square  Garden 
on  page  205.    The  arrows  indicate  rising  steps. 

206 


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From  77/^  Theatre  Arts  Magazine. 

THEATRES  DESIGNED  BY  HERMAN    ROSSE 

Above,  an  adaptation  of  the  huge  Coliseum  Building,  Chicago,  proposed 
for  the  production  of  a  nativity  play.  The  audience  is  seated  all  round  the 
circular  stage,  which  is  encircled  by  transparent  scenery  lighted  from  the 
inside  and  therefore  only  visible  on  the  side  opposite  the  spectator.  Below, 
a  novel  arrangement  of  forestage  and  proscenium  with  "projected  scenery" 
used   as  a   background. 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

wings  or  angelic  pinions  appropriate  to  the  progress 
of  Dante  through  the  infernal  and  celestial  regions. 

Another  American  artist,  the  Dutch  expatriate,  Her- 
man Rosse,  has  dreamed  of  new  playhouses.  His  first 
approach  is  architectural.  Rosse  has  spent  much  time 
and  energy  on  schemes  for  uniting  the  lines  of  the 
proscenium  opening  of  a  theatre  with  the  lines  of  the 
house,  for  bringing  a  real  artistic  unity  into  the  archi- 
tecture of  the  auditorium.  He  has  gone  beyond  this 
to  the  designing  of  stages  with  new  and  beautiful  ap- 
proaches— doors  set  in  the  proscenium  itself;  "flowery 
ways,"  leading  along  the  sides  of  the  auditorium  till 
they  merge  with  a  stage  flung  out  in  graceful  curves  be- 
yond the  confines  of  our  footlights ;  steps  down  from  the 
stage  to  the  floor  of  the  auditorium;  the  stage  itself  di- 
vided in  ingenious  ways  by  walls,  pillars  or  screens 
of  patterned  color  to  make  a  background  for  the  play. 

Rosse  conceives  "the  pure  structural  beauty  of  an 
unadorned  building,  a  beautifully  finished  platform," 
as  sufficient  for  the  mounting  of  many  of  the  finest  plays 
now  written  or  to  be  written.  The  new  playhouse,  as 
Rosse  sees  it,  "will  probably  lead  by  way  of  a  slow  de- 
velopment of  the  purely  constructive  stage  and  the  ora- 
tory platform  to  a  new  type  of  churchlike  theatre  with 
reflecting  domes,  beautiful  materials,  beautiful  peo- 
ple— to  a  revitalizing  of  art  by  a  complete  reversal 
from  the  artificial  to  the  living  real." 

To  reduce  the  problem  to  its  simplest  terms,  one 

207 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

can  see  in  such  a  vaudeville  theatre  as  Proctor's  in 
Mount  Vernon,  N.  Y.,  the  possibility  of  creating  this 
theatre  of  the  "living  real,"  with  the  actor  presented 
frankly  as  the  actor  with  the  simplest  of  detail  about 
him.  Forget  the  stage.  Reduce  it  to  a  mere  wall  of 
fabric  running  almost  where  the  curtain  or  the  motion 
picture  screen  stands  today,  and  broken  for  fifteen  feet 
in  the  centre  by  an  opening  in  which  to  set  properties  or 
through  which  (for  exterior  scenes)  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  a  plaster  dome  of  rather  modest  size.  Bulge  out  the 
apron  in  a  wide  curve  at  the  centre  and  in  lesser  and 
lower  curves  at  the  ends,  where  the  boxes  are  now. 
Open  the  doors  of  the  boxes  upon  these  demi-aprons  by 
means  of  steps,  and  from  balcony  windows  above  bend 
a  stairway  gracefully  along  the  wall  towards  the  stage. 
There — close  knit  with  the  wide  and  steep  auditorium 
— is  a  fair  beginning  toward  some  new  stage  of  intimacy 
and  capacity,  reality  and  imagination. 

Jacques  Copeau  began  his  theatre  as  directly  from 
something  already  in  existence.  He  did  not  expect  to 
make  great  reforms  in  stage  or  auditorium.  He  merely 
wanted  to  utilize  fully  the  miserably  tiny  hall  that  his 
small  resources  could  afford.  It  had  no  room  for  "ef- 
fects" for  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  normal  stage. 
That  did  not  matter.  Copeau  was  more  intent  upon 
the  actor.  Accordingly  he  and  his  artist-architect  com- 
pletely cleared  out  the  wings  and  old  picture  frame. 
In  their  stead,  they  installed  a  permanent  architectural 

208 


JACQUES    COPEAU'S    PERMANENT    STAGE 

Two  productions  at  the  Theatre  du  Vieux  C'olombier  in  Paris,  each  utilizing 
the  same  general  system  of  balcony  and  stairs,  which  are  built  permanently  into 
one  end  of  the  auditorium  with  forestage  and  steps.  There  is  no  proscenium. 
Above,   a  scene  from   Twelfth  Sight.     Below,  La  Surprise  de  I' 'Amour. 


THE  NEXT  THEATRE 

setting  at  the  back^  a  sort  of  balcony  reached  by  flights 
of  steps,  and  fairly  convertible  into  whatever  Cppeau 
needed  in  background  and  superstructure.  Or  if  he 
did  not  need  it,  it  disappeared  behind  hangings  or  sim- 
ple walls  held  in  ingenious  columns.  At  the  sides 
there  was  no  proscenium,  merely  doors  in  the  theatre 
wall  with  a  forestage  between.  Then,  for  his  lively 
handling  of  comedy,  he  returned  to  the  middle  of  his 
stage  the  treteau  or  low  platform  of  the  old  come- 


COPEAU's  STAGE  IN  NEW  YORK 


dians.  All  this — balcony,  back  wall,  portals,  forestage, 
treteau — was  frankly  and  honestly  worked  in  as  exten- 
sions to  the  rest  of  the  house  through  design  and  color. 
Here  was  an  instrument  of  natural  and  definite  struc- 
ture, yet  fluid  enough  to  permit  of  reshapings  that  gave 
Les  Freres  Karamazov  from  Dostoyevsky  and  Twelfth 
Night  in  the  same  theatre. 

This  scheme  of  playhouse  Copeau  achieved  again 
when  the  war  sent  him  to  New  York  as  the  ambassador 
of  French  culture — ten  years  ahead  of  his  time.    He 

209 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

made  over  the  Garrick  Theatre  in  loose  imitation  of  the 
stage  that  had  come  by  necessity  in  Paris,  and  the  re- 
sults were  admirable  and  right.  Back  again  in  Paris 
the  integrity  of  his  theatre  has  carried  Jacques  Copeau 
to  a  success  that  even  the  boulevards  may  envy.  And 
I  am  not  disinclined  to  believe  that  it  was  the  new 
playhouse  that  had  a  very  great  deal  to  do  with  it;  for 
the  new  playhouse  was  an  expression  of  his  own  feeling 
for  the  fresh  demands  of  the  time,  a  reaction  against 
antiquated  mechanism. 

Copeau's  playhouse  is  the  most  complete,  studied  and 
yet  natural  experiment;  Reinhardt's  the  most  ambitious. 
Neither  is  necessarily  conclusive.  They  are  tentative. 
Their  significance  is,  however,  prophetic  of  a  home 
for  the  new  play. 


210 


Part  Three 
the  new  play 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  THEATRE  WITHOUT  PLAYS. 

IT  is  a  curious  and  significant  fact  that  almost  all  the 
energies  of  the  new  movement  in  the  theatre  in 
the  past  twenty-five  years  have  gone  into  the  study 
and  the  development  of  production  methods  and  not 
into  the  writing  of  plays.  We  have  had  a  new  stage- 
craft and  no  new  drama;  a  new  dress  but  no  body  for 
it  to  clothe.  The  commonest  jibe  of  the  critics  of  the 
new  stagecraft  has  been  that  it  neglects  the  heart  of 
the  theatre,  the  play,  and  concentrates  upon  gauds  that 
have  no  intrinsic  worth  and  no  enduring  quality.  Its 
opponents  recall  the  attacks  of  the  disgruntled  play- 
wright, Ben  Jonson,  upon  the  first  great  English 
scenic  artist,  Inigo  Jones,  for  whose  court  masques  he 
had  written  librettos:  "Painting  and  carpentry  are  the 
soul  of  Masque." 

Shakespeare  .  .  .  Inigo  Jones.  Even  friends  of  the 
new  stagecraft  have  quailed  a  little  before  those  op- 
posed names.  Are  we  following  the  carpenters  instead 
of  the  poets?  Is  Gordon  Craig  the  prophet  of  a  god 
with  feet  of  papier-mache?  Shakespeare  played  his 
eternal  dramas  on  sunlit  hustings.     Inigo  Jones  cre- 

213 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

ated  his  mechanical  marvels  out  of  all  the  resources  of 
a  royal  court.  Shakespeare's  productions — if  you  can 
call  them  that — cost  but  a  few  pounds;  Jones's  cost 
thousands.  Yet  Shakespeare  lives  today,  while  Craig 
worries  the  problem  of  how  to  create  a  "durable 
theatre."  Can  the  artists  make  it  without  playwrights? 
Can  they  make  it  even  if  they  are  given  poets?  The 
final  disquietude  of  all  lovers  of  the  new  and  imagina- 
tive art  of  production  has  been  the  thought  that  when 
Inigo  Jones  got  hold  of  a  real  creator  the  outcome  was 
the  same  as  when  he  bossed  some  tuppenny  rhymster. 
The  genius  of  Ben  Jonson  was  crushed  beneath  the 
canvas  tomb  of  The  Masque  of  Blackness. 
"Shakespeare,    1 554-1616  .  .  .  Inigo   Jones,    1573- 

i652." 

Here  is  hope :  Inigo  Jones  came  after  the  great  days ; 
Robert  E.  Jones  may  be  coming  before  them.  Decad- 
ence requires  something  ripe  enough  to  decay;  some- 
thing great  enough  to  make  a  descent  evident.  Decad- 
ence is  a  difficult  feat  for  an  art  that  has  not  known  the 
heights.  We  have  had  Ibsen  and  Strindberg,  giants  in 
their  way,  and  lesser  men  absorbed  with  lesser  lives.  I 
can  only  believe  that  the  crushing  oppression  of  nine- 
teenth century  industrialism  held  them  all  bowed,  and 
that  if  they  could  have  found  release  from  the  desperate 
and  cruel  sense  of  human  slavery  they  would  have 
sought  more  surely  the  heights  of  the  spirit.  I  can  only 
affirm  that  the  new  stagecraft,  had  it  come  earlier, 

214 


A  THEATRE  WITHOUT  PLAYS 

would  have  aided  in  their  release,  and  that  it  is  to  play 
a  great  part  in  the  release  of  our  future  playwrights. 
Or  perhaps  it  is  nearer  the  truth  to  say  that  the  new 
stagecraft  came  as  the  first  indication  in  the  theatre  of 
the  lifting  of  that  sense  of  oppression  which  debased  the 
nineteenth  century  literature  even  while  it  sought  to 
escape. 

Undeniably,  American,  English  and  French  pro- 
ducers working  along  the  road  of  imagination  and  spir- 
itual truth  have  had  to  go  back  of  the  peep-show  drama 
of  the  last  fifty  years,  and  back  of  the  drear  mediocrity 
of  the  two  centuries  before,  to  find  plays  free  enough 
in  feeling  and  movement  and  large  enough  in  inner  sig- 
nificance to  match  the  art  and  ideas  they  wanted  to  bring 
to  the  stage.  Even  the  German  producers  have  faced  a 
similar  situation,  but  one  not  quite  so  bad.  They,  too, 
have  had  to  flee  from  realism  mainly  to  the  classics. 
Yet  their  classics  have  included  not  only  the  Greeks 
and  Shakespeare  and  Moliere,  but  also  Schiller, 
Goethe,  Grillparzer;  and  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
German's  parody  of  French  naturalism,  there  was  na- 
tive drama  that  sought  large  meanings  and  heroic  emo- 
tions. Hauptmann  wrote  Hannele  two  years  after 
Lonely  Lives,  The  Sunken  Bell  two  years  before 
Drayman  Henschel,  Henry  of  Au'e  almost  in  the  same 
year  as  Rosa  Berndt  and  the  "cosmic  puppet  play,"  Das 
Festspiel  the  year  after  Gabriel  Schilling's  Flight. 
Throughout  Germany,  between  1900  and  1915,  there 

215 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

were  plays  like  von  Hofmannsthahl's  Electra,  Hardt's 
Tantris  der  Narr,  Molnar's  Liliom,  Heyse's  Mary  of 
Magdala.  And  the  German  public  was  willing  that 
its  producers  should  go  to  France  for  Maeterlinck,  to 
Belgium  for  Verhaeren,  to  Italy  for  D'Annunzio. 
This  tendency  to  keep  alive  some  measure  of  imagina- 
tion did  much  to  stimulate  the  German  artists  and  pro- 
ducers; but  it  is  still  true  that  even  in  Germany  the 
new  stagecraft  fell  back  upon  the  classics  for  ma- 
terial worthy  of  its  efforts  and  capable  of  developing 
the  best  that  was  in  it. 

Even  in  the  classics  the  new  art  of  the  theatre  has 
found  no  thorough  satisfaction  of  its  urge  to  creation. 
Outside  Germany,  Shakespeare  and  the  Greeks  are 
acted  too  seldom  to  supply  the  artists  with  much  of  an 
opportunity.  Everywhere  the  classics  are  encrusted 
with  traditions  and  the  public  mind  bound  by  pre- 
conceptions of  them.  These  traditions  are  hard 
to  demolish,  these  preconceptions  are  dangerous  things 
to  fight.  In  commenting  on  the  fact  that  "the  new  art 
of  the  theatre  has  so  far  failed  conspicuously  in  devis- 
ing new  plays  to  fit  more  closely  its  new  and  peculiar 
needs,"  Walter  Prichard  Eaton  wrote  truly  in  The 
Theatre  Arts  Magazine:  "Falling  back  on  Shakes- 
peare, it  is  actually  losing  as  much  as  it  gains,  for 
while  it  gains  a  play  of  imaginative  power  and  ma- 
jestic poetry,  it  also  has  to  combat  the  tremendous 
dead  weight  of  tradition,  the  inbred  ideas  of  an  au- 

216 


A  THEATRE  WITHOUT  PLAYS 

dience  about  that  play  running  in  a  totally  different 
channel."  So  far  as  the  common  run  of  plays  goes, 
the  new  stagecraft  could  give  much,  of  course,  to  the 
realistic  drama,  as  has  been  demonstrated  even  in 
America  in  such  productions  as  The  Devil's  Garden, 
The  Power  of  Darkness  and  John  Ferguson;  but  it 
could  draw  little  or  nothing  from  them.  If  the  enemy 
of  the  new  stagecraft  cares  to  push  his  comparison 
of  Inigo  Jones  and  Shakespeare  to  the  point  of  bal- 
ancing the  work  of  the  stage  designers  and  directors 
of  modern  Germany,  Russia  and  America  against  the 
work  of  the  realistic  playwrights,  I  for  one  am  pre- 
pared to  maintain  that  the  work  of  the  artists  has  been 
healthier  art  than  the  work  of  the  playwrights,  finer, 
higher,  more  inspiriting.  The  line,  mass,  and  color  of 
Robert  Edmond  Jones  can  do  more  to  liberate  man 
from  slavery  to  machines  and  to  their  owners  than  all 
the  social  dramas  of  modern  England.  Jones's  art 
liberates  the  soul;  the  propagandist's  labor  stimulates 
only  the  mind. 

Yet  in  spite  of  this  essential  health  in  the  new  stage- 
craft, in  spite  of  the  classics  to  draw  upon  as  a  substi- 
tute for  the  drama  of  realism  and  as  a  supplement  to 
the  small  body  of  imaginative  drama,  the  partizans 
of  the  new  methods  of  production  must  see  and  admit 
that  the  new  stagecraft  has  gone  only  a  small  part  of 
the  way  towards  reanimating  the  theatre,  and  that  it 

217 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

cannot  claim  to  have  done  so  until  playwrights  come 
forward  or  are  driven  forward  to  stand  beside  it. 

I  might  plausibly  claim  that  this  will  happen  be- 
cause the  new  stagecraft  and  the  new  playhouse  which 
it  is  evolving  happen  to  be  efficient  instruments  that 
must  attract  the  playwright  and  cause  him  to  write 
in  a  style  suited  to  their  exigencies.  This  is  not  so 
very  presumptuous  a  claim.  Before  this,  playwrights 
have  conformed  to  physical  theatres.  In  fact,  they 
have  done  little  else.  Brander  Matthews  has  demon- 
strated this  completely  and  convincingly  in  the  third 
chapter  of  his  Study  of  the  Drama.  He  cites  the 
conditions  of  the  Greek  theatre  and  shows  how  they 
inevitably  called  for  plays  written  as  iEschylus, 
Sophocles  and  Euripides  wrote  them.  He  does  the 
same  for  the  Elizabethan  theatre,  showing  that  the 
form  of  Shakespeare's  plays  depended  on  the  type  of 
playhouse  he  had  to  write  for.  And  the  same  for 
Moliere,  and  the  rest  of  the  playwrights  down  to  our 
own  day,  ending  with  Edison's  incandescent  bulb  dic- 
tating to  the  realists. 

There  is  one  modification  to  be  made,  however.  It 
recalls  the  old  problem  of  which  came  first,  the  hen 
or  the  egg.  Broadly  considered,  there  were  no  thea- 
tres before  there  were  plays,  and  no  plays  before  there 
were  playwrights.  On  the  other  hand,  the  playwrights 
of  our  ten  different  historical  structures  called  the 
Theatre  did  not  begin  by  saying:  "Go  to,  I  must  have 

218 


A  THEATRE  WITHOUT  PLAYS 

a  play  acted.  In  each  beginning  there  was  a  rudi- 
mentary playhouse  and  a  rudimentary  play  concealed 
in  the  impulse  towards  dramatic  expression  which  in- 
fected a  little  group  of  men.  They  began  to  give  this 
impulse  expression  in  some  form  that  linked  a  tech- 
nique of  presentation  (or  rudimentary  stage)  with  a  set 
of  verbal  and  bodily  evolutions  (or  a  rudimentary 
play) .  Then  came  more  conscious  creators  who  saw  the 
possibilities  of  the  stage  and  extended  the  form  of  the 
play  to  utilize  them. 

It  is  of  the  highest  significance,  however,  that  the 
first  creative  playwrights,  in  many  cases  the  greatest 
playwrights,  were  actor-playwrights.  The  men  who 
most  quickly  and  most  fully  saw  the  possibilities  in- 
herent in  their  theatre — Shakespeare  and  Moliere  are 
classic  examples — belonged  to  that  very  sensitive  type 
of  theatrical  worker,  the  player. 

I  stress  this  point  because  it  is  of  importance  when 
we  go  beyond  the  business  of  granting  that  the  new 
stagecraft  and  the  new  playhouse  exist,  and  believing 
that,  by  the  example  of  theatrical  history,  the  play- 
wright will  utilize  them.  If  we  look  for  the  reason 
of  the  coming  of  the  new  art  of  the  theatre,  and  the 
reason  why  the  new  playwright  has  not  developed 
more  quickly,  as  he  did  in  other  theatres,  we  stumble 
upon  a  theory  in  which  the  sensitiveness  of  the  various 
factors  in  modern  production  plays  a  tremendous  part. 
To  me,  this  theory  explains  the  coming  of  the  new  art 

219 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

of  the  theatre  through  the  designer  first,  the  producer 
next,  and  the  playwright  last  of  all. 

I  cannot  escape  the  conviction  that  there  is  some- 
thing inherently  and  humanly  mystical  in  the  coming 
of  a  new  movement  in  art.  It  seems  quite  literally  the 
product  of  a  Zeitgeist.  Perhaps  it  is  better  to  say  that 
the  movement  and  the  Zeitgeist  are  identical.  The 
moving  cause  and  the  creators  through  whom  it  moves 
are  members  one  of  another.  This  alone  explains  the 
simultaneity  of  creation  and  the  lightning-like  spread 
of  idea  and  will. 

The  application  to  the  new  art  of  the  theatre  is  this : 
Here  we  have  a  general  movement;  it  does  not  first 
present  itself  through  a  single  creative  and  dominant 
mind  and  then  by  its  attractiveness  conquer  other 
minds.  While  realism  is  in  the  height  of  its  growth 
we  find  the  ideas  of  the  new  stagecraft  expressing  them- 
selves in  half  a  dozen  places.  Of  these  primary  ex- 
pressions in  the  nineties  there  were,  among  others,  Per- 
fall,  director  of  the  Munich  Royal  Court  Theatre. 
graphic  artists  like  Anselm  Feuerbach  and  Henry 
Wilson,  stage  designers  and  theorists  like  Adolphe  Ap- 
pia  and  Gordon  Craig.  And  soon  Max  Reinhardt, 
Meyerhold,  Fuchs,  Martersteig,  Hagemann,  Rouche, 
all  producers,  were  laboring  with  artists  like  Stern, 
Roller,  Walser,  Starke,  Wirk,  Sievert,  Erler,  Leffler, 
Czeschka. 

Why  should  this  Zeitgeist  touch  first  of  all  a  figure 

220 


A  THEATRE  WITHOUT  PLAYS 

of  such  slight  importance  hitherto  in  the  theatre,  the 
artist?  It  was  not  so  in  the  past.  The  reason,  I  be- 
lieve, is  twofold.  First  this  impulse  touched  the  ar- 
tist as  no  theatrical  impulse  towards  the  theatre  had 
touched  him  in  the  past  because  graphic  artists 
had  never  been  so  plentiful  in  numbers  or  so  free  to 
receive  and  act  upon  impulse  as  at  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  because  the  new  movement, 
like  every  other  movement  in  our  theatre  except  the 
realistic  movement,  had  a  place  for  him. 

The  second  and  more  significant  reason  for  the  Zeit- 
geist's finding  its  initial  expression  through  the  artist 
is  because  the  artist  is  the  most  sensitive  directive  fac- 
tor in  the  theatre.  The  actor  is  as  sensitive  in  tempera- 
ment, perhaps  more  sensitive.  But  the  actor  is  not, 
like  the  artist,  the  director,  or  the  playwright,  a  respon- 
sible directive  factor.  The  actor  alone  through  all 
the  centuries  has  never  failed  the  theatre.  He  does 
not  fail  it  now;  it  largely  neglects  him.  When  the 
artist  and  the  director  wake  up  to  the  necessity  of  draw- 
ing the  actor  more  closely  and  more  completely  into 
the  picture,  of  expressing  through  him  the  vigors  of 
abstract  design  and  direction,  the  actor  will  respond. 
He  is  always  ready  to  respond,  and  to  respond  to  the 
limit  of  the  human  spirit,  if  he  is  given  the  opportunity. 
But  he  does  not  direct  effort.  He  receives  direction. 
When  he  does  begin  to  direct,  he  ceases  to  be  an  actor; 
he  becomes  a  director,  a  producer.     To  do  this,  which 

221 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

is  a  very  complicated  piece  of  work,  requiring  great 
executive  ability,  he  must  have  a  quality  in  him  not  so 
sensitive  as  the  pure  actor's  nature.  It  is  not  so  sensi- 
tive as  the  artist's  either,  for  the  artist  does  his  work 
to  a  great  extent  by  himself  or  in  loose  cooperation 
with  others.  Therefore,  for  practical  purposes  of  ex- 
pression, the  Zeitgeist  may  be  said  to  skip  the  pure 
actor,  and  seize  first  on  the  artist,  and  second  on  the 
actor-director.  If  the  actor  should  become  play- 
wright, as  he  once  used  to  do,  or  if  the  playwright  could 
regain  the  sensitiveness  and  closeness  to  the  theatre 
which  he  enjoyed  when  he  was  also  an  actor,  the  Zeit- 
geist would  not  so  long  ignore  either. 

The  spirit  of  the  new  art  of  the  theatre  has  played 
for  twenty  or  thirty  years  upon  the  artists  and  directors. 
It  is  beginning  to  play  upon  that  remoter  factor,  the 
dramatist.  Already  we  may  note,  in  many  directions 
— in  the  decay  of  "construction"  and  the  disuse  of 
the  three-act  and  four-act  form,  in  the  emergence  of 
older  forms,  many  scenes,  the  soliloquy,  rhythmic  prose 
or  verse — signs  that  the  playwright  is  deserting  the  old 
technique  of  realism.  He  is  passing  through  a  transi- 
tional stage  beyond  which  lies  the  new  play. 


222 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  TWILIGHT  OF  REALISM. 

THE  history  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  the 
history  of  the  rise  of  realism.  It  is  also  the 
history  of  the  development  of  a  dramatic  form 
never  before  known  to  the  theatre,  a  form  fitted  with 
peculiar  appropriateness  both  to  the  substance  of  real- 
ism and  to  the  peep-show  playhouse  in  which  realism 
got  its  birth — the  play  of  three  or  four  acts,  each  and 
often  all  of  them  passing  in  a  single  scene.  The  sub- 
stance of  nineteenth  century  drama  is  realism;  its  form 
is  the  "well  constructed  play."  Both  the  substance 
and  the  form  are  disappearing  under  the  pressure  upon 
the  playwrights  of  the  Zeitgeist  of  imaginative  beauty 
and  spiritual  power,  which  is  first  to  be  observed  in 
the  insurgence  of  the  ideas  of  the  new  stagecraft  be- 
tween 1890  and  1900. 

It  is  easy  to  quarrel  with  the  attack  of  the  new  thea- 
tre upon  realism,  because  realism  has  become  all  things 
to  all  men.  To  me  realism  is  just  one  thing:  an  ab- 
sorption with  the  ephemeral  exterior  of  the  time  in 
which  we  live.  There  might,  perhaps,  be  a  realism 
of  the  seventeenth  century — a  surface  picture  of  the 

223 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

days  of  Addison;  it  would  hardly  fall  within  my  defi- 
nition and  my  damnation  because  it  would  not  suffer 
the  worst  fault  of  the  realism  I  write  of — the  fault  of 
telling  us  the  trivial  things  that  we  know  already. 
There  might  be,  and  in  fact  there  is  a  realism  of  our 
own  which  gives  us  the  ephemeral  exterior  but  which 
goes  so  much  deeper  for  the  substance  of  its  art  that 
it  has  values  which  are,  as  near  as  we  can  measure 
them,  eternal.  This  is  the  realism  of  Ibsen  at  his 
best  in  Rosmersholm  or  our  own  O'Neill  in  portions 
of  Beyond  the  Horizon.  Such  playwrights  have  se- 
lected their  material  not  to  imitate  life  but  to  illumine 
it.  Their  work  has  a  genuine  place  in  dramatic  lit- 
erature. We  are  turning  away,  however,  even  from 
their  high  realism  because  we  are  seeking  an  intense 
inner  vision  of  spiritual  reality  which  will  push  the 
selective  process  so  far  that  to  call  the  result  realism 
will  be  an  absurdity.  We  are  rushing  off  to  other 
lands  and  other  times,  partly  out  of  a  desire  to  escape 
the  dullness  of  our  inferior  realism  and  partly  to  begin 
in  unfamiliar  surroundings  an  exploration  of  the  ulti- 
mate spiritual  values  which  we  will  later  be  able  to 
apply  to  our  own  life.  Realism  of  the  higher  type 
will  continue  for  a  long  time  in  our  theatre,  but  with 
it  will  come  a  growing  body  of  plays  that  foreswear 
its  materials  and  its  dramaturgy. 

The  nineteenth  century's  glorification  of  theatrical 
technique  may  be  traced  to  its  beginnings  in  the  forties 

224 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  REALISM 

with  the  shallow,  intricate  plays  of  Scribe,  the  ex- 
ploiter of  the  piece  bien  faite.  Realism — the  absorp- 
tion in  the  surface  effects  of  life  at  the  expense  of 
spiritual  understanding — had  its  start  in  the  fifties 
with  the  problem  plays  of  Augier  and  Dumas  fits, 
and  the  invention  of  the  raisonneur  by  Barriere  in  1853. 
"Naturalism"  came  in  the  sixties  and  seventies  with 
the  de  Goncourts,  Zola  and  Daudet;  it  was  a  conscious 
photography  of  low-life  glorying  in  the  fatuous  de- 
lusion that  it  was  unedited  by  the  hand  of  its  creator. 
Realism  reached  full  dignity  and  integrity  only  in  1879 
when  Ibsen  wrote  A  Doll's  House.  The  late  eighties 
saw  Strindberg  beginning  his  vitalistic  contributions 
with  The  Father,  Comrades,  and  Miss  Julia.  The 
"free  theatre"  movement  of  the  nineties  and  its  impact 
on  the  commercial  stage  brought  realism  to  its  peak 
of  popularity  in  Porto-Riche,  Brieux,  Becque,  Her- 
vieu,  Donnay,  de  Curel,  Lavedan,  Holz,  Hauptmann, 
Halbe,  Hartleben  and  Sudermann.  Rather  belatedly 
two  English  playwrights  discovered  the  French  drama 
and  forth  came  the  plays  of  Arthur  Wing  Pinero  and 
Henry  Arthur  Jones.  Within  the  year  when  the  tor- 
tured soul  of  Ibsen  was  trying  in  When  We  Dead 
Awaken  to  soar  beyond  the  limits  of  realism  which  his 
mind  had  set  up,  Pinero  was  writing  The  Gay  Lord 
Quex  and  Jones  Mrs.  Dane's  Defense. 

With  the  last  stages  of  the  realistic  movement,  which 
was,  like  so  much  of  the  nineteenth  century  literature, 

225 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

fundamentally  a  product  of  the  industrial  subjection 
of  this  hideous  period,  went  rebellions  against  both  the 
rule  of  the  machine  and  the  rule  of  its  philosophers 
and  its  chasteners.  Maeterlinck,  imbued  with  the  re- 
action of  the  symbolist  poets  of  France  in  the  nineties; 
Rostand,  the  absolutist  in  the  theatre,  a  law  unto  him- 
self;  D'Annunzio  and  Bennelli,  true  to  the  fervid  ro- 
mance of  their  race;  Verhaeren,  from  Belgium,  von 
Hofmannsthahl,  from  Germany,  produced  dramas  that 
could  only  be  interpreted  fitly  by  such  artists  of  the 
theatre  as  were  slowly  developing  round  the  ideas  of  the 
new  stagecraft.  In  the  face  of  a  public  still  absorbed  in 
peeping  at  its  own  face  in  the  mirror,  great  realists 
like  Strindberg  and  Hauptmann  did  not  fear  to  write 
in  a  subliminal  vein.  Tchehoff  broke  from  the  plot- 
technique  of  realism  while  he  abided  by  its  act-form, 
and  sought  spiritual  deeps  within  the  proscenium  of 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  Shaw,  the  propagandist, 
smashed  whatever  icons  of  dramaturgy  he  pleased,  and 
hobnobbed  with  Napoleon  and  Cleopatra  and  Caesar, 
while  Wedekind  played  the  mischief  with  German 
naturalism  in  a  fashion  that  we  could  only  describe  as 
expressionism  today.  Yet  for  all  this  the  whole  spirit 
of  the  modern  European  stage  remained  realistic  prac- 
tically up  to  1 910;  and  its  form,  the  stiff  set  of  pigeon- 
holes into  which  Ibsen  managed  to  cram  so  much 
emotion. 
The  significant  thing  in  the  theatre  of  today  is  not 

226 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  REALISM 

the  advent  of  new  Maeterlincks,  new  D'Annunzios; 
they  are  hardly  the  playwrights  for  whom  the  new  the- 
atre is  looking.  The  significant  thing  is  the  break- 
down of  realism  in  form  and  content,  and  the  begin- 
ning of  free,  faint  gropings  towards  a  reality  behind 
life. 

From  1900  on,  the  complaint  of  those  enamored 
with  the  theatre  of  Jones  and  Pinero  (until  then  the 
only  theatre  of  realism  which  America  had  actually 
known)  has  been  of  the  decay  of  what  they  please  to 
call  the  dramatic  form.  Our  dramas,  they  say,  have 
become  invertebrate.  They  are  no  more  than  "a  dis- 
array of  situations  that  demand  mere  attention  and 
defy  comprehension."  The  first  act  no  longer  states 
a  situation  which  the  following  two  or  three  acts  de- 
velop and  solve.  Plots  are  carelessly  developed  or  else 
cast  aside  in  favor  of  a  loose  collection  of  more  or  less 
unrelated  scenes. 

The  indictment  is  true.  It  is  also  hopeful.  We  are 
suffering  now  from  the  faults  of  any  period  of  tran- 
sition, but  at  least  we  are  on  the  way  from  a  narrow 
form  and  a  narrow  content  towards  freer  expression 
and  the  sharper  and  deeper  understanding  which  this 
form  may  win.  Giving  up  structure,  we  often  get 
merely  sensation  or  topical  humor;  but  often  enough 
we  come  upon  closer  characterization  and  larger  mean- 
ing.    In  the  future  we  should  go  further. 

Of  the  breakdown  in  construction  there  can  be  no 

227 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

doubt.  Slow  as  America  is  in  its  pursuit  of  Europe, 
it  has  been  no  laggard  in  demolishing  the  best  rules 
of  realism.  Perhaps  it  is  the  natural  impulse  of  a 
youthful  literature;  beginners  learn  as  little  of  the  past 
as  possible,  and  sense  very  quickly  the  things  that  are 
to  be  of  small  use  to  them.  The  decay  of  the  realistic 
dramatic  form  is  as  evident  in  the  popular  American 
stage  of  the  past  ten  years  as  it  has  been  in  Europe. 
Perhaps  it  is  more  general  and  more  marked. 

I  cannot  but  believe  that  the  future  of  the  theatre 
lies  in  America;  and  I  think  that  the  natural  tendency 
of  any  man  to  reserve  for  his  own  people  the  perfecting 
of  an  art  to  which  he  is  ardently  devoted  is  strength- 
ened in  this  case  by  the  position  of  the  United  States 
in  world  politics,  which  means  world  industrialism. 
America  is  today  the  burgeoning  people.  In  the  face 
of  the  industrial  and  political  revolution  into  which 
Europe  is  slipping,  America  seems  likely  to  lean  far 
towards  the  reactionary  for  some  years  to  come,  to 
grow  more  centralized,  more  mechanistic,  to  embark 
upon  the  pursuit  of  empire.  Those  are  the  tendencies 
which  one  must  recognize  who  looks  with  a  general 
eye  at  America  today.  Those  are  also  the  tendencies 
which  have  made  great  drama  in  every  age  of  the 
theatre  except  the  realistic;  and  I  am  not  unwilling  to 
maintain  that  whatever  the  realistic  age  has  produced  it 
has  not  produced  great  drama  in  the  finest  sense. 
iEschylus,  Sophocles  and  Euripides  wrote  when  Athens 

228 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  REALISM 

was  headed  for  the  debacle  that  followed  Sparta's  chal- 
lenge to  her  imperialism.  Shakespeare  wrote  when 
Drake  was  making  England  the  greatest  sea  power  in 
history,  and  when  her  discoverers  were  founding  her 
empire  overseas.  Racine,  Corneille  and  Moliere  were 
ornaments  of  the  court  of  the  Grand  Monarch.  It 
would  even  be  possible  to  find  some  traces  of  Ger- 
many's urge  towards  hegemony  in  the  activity  of  her 
theatres  and  their  architects,  producers  and  artists,  if 
not  so  markedly  in  her  playwrights,  during  the  reign 
of  Wilhelm  von  Hohenzollern.  If  wealth  and  domin- 
ion in  industry  are  to  flow  to  America  in  answer  to 
an  inner  urge  and  an  outward  opportunity,  dominion 
in  the  theatre  is  quite  as  likely  to  be  another  outlet  of 
its  burgeoning  spirit. 

The  course  of  the  breakdown  of  the  realistic  dra- 
matic form  can  be  traced  with  uncommon  clearness 
in  the  ordinary  commercial  productions  of  Broadway 
between  1912  and  1914.  One  need  hardly  begin  with 
Everywoman,  the  flaccid  parody  of  Everyman,  which 
came  to  the  old  Herald  Square  Theatre  in  the  winter 
of  191 1 ;  in  two  seasons  there  is  plenty  of  evidence. 
Recalling  for  the  moment  that  Molnar's  eight-scened 
Liliom,  which  takes  its  rough-neck  hero  to  heaven  and 
back  again,  was  then  hardly  off  its  author's  desk;  that 
Dymow  had  lately  written  his  Nju  in  thirteen  scenes 
and  that  it  was  achieving  great  success  in  Russia,  and 
that    the    death   of    Tolstoy   in    1910   had    disclosed 

229 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

The  Living  Corpse,  which,  cut  down  from  thirteen 
scenes  to  ten,  was  to  achieve  success  in  New  York  two 
years  later,  we  can  list  among  the  noteworthy  produc- 
tions on  Broadway  in  191 2-13  Schnitzler's  Anatol,  a 
series  of  one-act  plays;  Shaw's  Fanny's  First  Play,  a 
play-within-a-play;  Bennett's  Milestones,  leaping 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  the  Benrimo- 
Hazelton  Yellow  Jacket,  a  drama  in  Chinese  form. 
With  the  next  season  American  playwrights  were  lead- 
ing in  experimentation.  For  foreign  oddities  there 
were  Bennett's  Great  Adventure  in  six  symetrically 
arranged  scenes  and  the  Rostand  fils  Good  Little  Devil 
skipping  about  in  fairyland.  Arthur  Hopkins  sig- 
nalized his  entry  into  theatrical  management  with 
Eleanor  Gate's  odd  and  ingenious  dream-play,  The 
Poor  Little  Rich  Girl,  and  Edward  Sheldon  wrote 
another  play-within-a-play  in  Romance.  These  con- 
tradictions of  the  rules  by  which  Pinero  lived  shared 
the  season's  honors  with  that  excellent  trick-melodrama 
by  George  M.  Cohan  and  Earl  Derr  Biggers,  Seven 
Keys  to  Baldpate.  The  next  year,  in  Under  Cover,  a 
play  about  a  thief  who  turned  out  to  be  a  detective, 
Roi  Cooper  Megrue  broke  the  strictest  rule  of  all — 
that  an  author  must  keep  no  secrets  from  his  audience 
— and  let  loose  upon  the  American  stage  a  flood  of 
trick  plays  and  guessing  contests  that  culminated  in 
such  so-called  "murder  mysteries,"  as  The  Thirteenth 
Chair,  At  8:45,  A  Voice  in  the  Dark,  The  Crimson 

230 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  REALISM 

Alibi  and  The  Bat.  The  production  by  Arthur  Hop- 
kins in  association  with  Cohan  &  Harris  of  On  Trial, 
by  Elmer  Rice,  signalized  the  impact  of  motion 
picture  story-telling  methods  on  our  stage.  Here  was 
a  plot  told  backward,  beginning  with  the  trial  of  the 
accused,  then  showing  successively  the  crime,  the  events 
preceding  the  crime  and  the  cause  of  the  crime  buried 
in  incidents  ten  or  fifteen  years  before.  Thereafter  the 
same  device,  intermittent  "flashbacks,"  simultaneous 
action,  and  many  other  methods  for  avoiding  the 
orderly  unknotting  of  a  plot  in  three  or  four  tight- 
packed  and  progressive  acts,  appeared  again  and  again 
in  the  plays  of  Broadway. 

With  the  development  of  freak  plays  has  also  gone 
almost  as  marked  a  divergence  from  past  procedure 
in  the  increase  in  the  number  of  scenes.  For  a  time 
realism  clung  tenaciously  to  the  pleasures  to  be  de- 
rived from  a  plot  that  falls  into  long,  steadily  cumu- 
lative scenes;  it  even  reached  on  occasion — in  The 
Servant  in  the  House  and  Swords — the  unity  of  time, 
place  and  action  which  Aristotle  rather  erroneously 
imagined  belonged  to  the  Greek  dramas,  broken  as 
they  were  by  choruses  that  might  have  separated  their 
scenes  leagues  and  hours  but  for  the  continuous  nature 
of  religious  ritual.  The  virtues  of  three  tight,  taut 
acts  have  now  lost  some  of  their  attractiveness.  The 
habit  of  using  only  three  or  four  settings  for  the  un- 
folding of  a  plot  was  partly  a  product  of  the  difficulties 

231 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

of  scene  shifting  when  realism  must  make  the  back- 
grounds as  heavy  as  the  dialogue;  it  also  sprang,  of 
course,  from  the  difficulty  of  drawing  much  emotional 
or  spiritual  sustenance  from  a  literal  picture  of  life 
without  forcing  a  good  deal  of  action  and  a  good  many 
people  into  a  single  long  scene.  As  with  any  form, 
there  was  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  watching  the 
mastery  of  it.  But  such  pleasure  palls;  realism  has 
palled  with  it,  and  the  conceptions  and  devices  of  the 
new  stagecraft  have  made  rapid  change  of  scene  a  sim- 
ple matter  of  either  mechanics  or  design.  Accord- 
ingly, playwrights  of  the  past  few  years  have  permitted 
themselves  the  freedom  of  six,  seven,  a  dozen  scenes, 
and  more  and  more  the  reward  has  been  a  closer 
glimpse  of  the  true  inner  lives  of  men  and  women  than 
the  writers  could  have  accomplished  in  the  older  form. 
Europe  and  America  have  shared  in  this  tendency 
towards  more  scenes.  Galsworthy,  hardly  to  be 
thought  of  as  anything  but  a  realist  in  spite  of  his 
Little  Dream,  has  written  few  dramas  under  the  old 
restriction;  The  Silver  Box,  A  Bit  o'  Love,  Justice 
and  The  Mob  have  six  scenes;  The  Skin  Game  and 
The  Fugitive  have  five.  Arnold  Bennett  is  fancy-free; 
his  Great  Adventure  goes  to  the  length  of  six  scenes 
in  its  telling.  Over  on  the  Continent  there  is  Franz 
Molnar,  who  gives  Liliom  eight  scenes  and  divides 
his  dream  play,  The  Phantom  Rival  (Das  Marchen 
des  Wolfes)  into  seven  episodes.     Wedekind  began  in 

232 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  REALISM 

The  Awakening  of  Spring  with  eighteen  scenes.  Tol- 
stoy's Redemption  has  thirteen;  Ossip  Dymow's  Nju 
has  as  many.  I  refrain  from  a  long  and  tedious  cata- 
log of  many-scened  plays,  ending  with  dozens  of  Broad- 
way successes  in  which  curtains  fall  to  break  acts  in 
half,  and  other  acts  shift  three  times  in  a  merry  chase 
about  New  York. 

I  will  merely  point  out  that  when  Eugene  O'Neill 
— at  first  an  arch-realist  in  his  one-act  plays,  though 
a  realist  whose  art  bit  deeper  than  the  surface — turned 
to  the  writing  of  long  plays,  his  first  ran  in  six  scenes; 
and  that  he  followed  the  success  of  this  with  The 
Emperor  Jones,  a  remarkable  study,  in  eight  scenes,  of 
racial  and  subconscious  fears,  and  proceeded  to  drama- 
tize in  ten  scenes  one  of  the  oldest  of  race-myths  in  a 
play  of  the  Spanish  exploration. 

Beside  the  breakdown  of  the  Ibsen  play-form  in 
America,  we  must  also  place  a  tendency  to  depart 
from  the  surface  and  the  content  of  realism  itself.  In 
the  great  mass  of  popular  plays  there  has  always  been 
little  of  true  realism  except  its  outward  show;  that 
little  is  growing  less.  The  costume  play — a  recipe  for 
failure  ten  years  ago  when  the  breakdown  of  the  real- 
istic form  began  here — has  forged  forward  of  late 
years  to  a  surprising  extent.  We  have  had  the  costume 
play  before,  notably  in  the  dramas  of  the  type  of  When 
Knighthood  Was  in  Flower  twenty  years  ago,  but  we 
were  then  no  part  of  the  general  world-theatre,  and 

233 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

our  realism  had  hardly  reached  the  Pinero  stage.  The 
rapier  melodrama  was  simply  a  fashion  of  the  English- 
speaking  stage.  This  was  stock-romance.  We  did 
not  roam  foreign  lands  and  other  times,  as  we  do  now, 
"for  to  admire  and  for  to  see." 

Now,  after  a  thorough  dosage  of  small-town  com- 
edies and  crook  melodramas  and  also  a  little  Shaw, 
Tolstoy  and  Ibsen,  we  find  that  we  can  voyage  any- 
where with  impunity.  The  cut  of  costumes  and  color 
of  scenery  make  no  difference  on  the  income  side  of 
the  manager's  books,  whatever  they  may  do  to  the  ex- 
penses of  production.  Here  again  cataloging  would 
be  equally  tiresome  for  writer  and  reader.  Let  us  con- 
sider merely  the  plays  of  other  lands  or  other  times, 
all  of  them  picturesque,  which  crossed  the  Broadway 
stage  in  1920-21.  Among  the  successes  of  the  season 
appear  these  plays  of  picturesque  setting:  Deburau, 
Paris  of  1828;  Spanish  Love,  Spain  of  today;  Little 
Old  New  York,  Manhattan  in  1820;  The  Tavern,  any 
time,  anywhere;  The  Bad  Man,  the  Mexican  border 
today;  The  Broken  Wing,  Mexico,  today;  Mecca,  the 
Orient,  some  hundreds  of  years  ago;  The  Prince  and 
the  Pauper,  Tudor  England;  The  Emperor  Jones,  the 
West  Indies,  today;  The  Green  Goddess,  the  Hima- 
layas today;  a  revival  of  Romance,  New  York  of 
fifty  years  ago;  Liliom,  Budapest  and  Heaven,  from 
1907  to  date.  Among  the  less  successful  plays,  some 
of  them  failures,  are  Clair  de  Lune,  eighteenth  cen- 

234 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  REALISM 

tury,  France;  Mary  Stuart,  Scotland  in  1565;  Thy 
Name  is  Woman,  Spain  of  today.  Of  these,  two  at 
least  were  profitable  to  their  managements.  The  suc- 
cess of  the  costume  play  averaged  higher  than  that  of 
the  realistic. 

The  decay  of  the  structure  brought  to  its  highest  in 
the  plays  of  Ibsen,  and  the  increase  in  popular  and 
sound  drama  of  a  picturesque  nature,  do  not  necessa- 
rily mean  the  end  of  realism,  or  progress  for  the  drama. 
The  shallowness  of  realism  is  still  possible,  though  per- 
haps more  difficult,  in  plays  of  many  scenes;  the  shal- 
lowness of  romance  may  be  the  first  and  the  only  re- 
sult of  voyages  away  from  the  life  we  know.  But, 
taken  with  the  record  of  twenty  years  of  effort  on  the 
part  of  the  artists  and  directors  who  have  been  learning 
and  practicing  the  new  art  of  imaginative  production, 
all  this  change  in  the  surface  habits  of  the  playwrights 
seems  significant.  The  mysterious  impulse  which 
moved  the  more  sensitive  factors  in  the  theatre  toward 
a  new  kind  of  effort  is  playing  more  and  more  impe- 
riously upon  the  dramatist.    The  sun  of  realism  sinks. 


235 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  FORM  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

TODAY  the  dramatic  form  degenerates,  falls  to 
pieces,  lies  neglected.  Playwrights  do  not 
bother  to  learn  the  technique  of  Ibsen;  if  they 
know  it  by  some  divine  instinct,  or  unconsciously  ab- 
sorb it  by  reading  and  observation,  they  do  not  bother 
to  practice  it.  Like  the  modern  painters^  they  refuse 
to  load  themselves  down  with  a  respectable,  academic 
and  rather  laborious  method.  Like  some  of  the  mod- 
ernists, they  may  be  doing  this  because  they  are  too  lazy 
to  master  the  technique  of  representation,  or,  like  the 
genuine  artists  among  the  new  painters,  they  may  be- 
lieve they  are  quick  with  a  new  life  which  demands  the 
right  to  make  its  own  form  of  expression ;  they  may  feel 
that  spontaneity  of  inspiration  cannot  resist  the  deaden- 
ing and  tedious  routine  of  the  older  technique. 

Certainly  the  great  mass  of  our  playwrights  who 
no  longer  build  solid  dramatic  structures  ignore  con- 
struction because  they  get  no  pleasure  from  it  and 
find  the  public  does  not  demand  it.  Some  take  ad- 
vantage of  this  freedom  from  form  to  give  us  small 
visions  of  humanity,  bits  of  satiric  humor,  glimpses 

236 


THE  FORM  OF  THE  FUTURE 

into  deep  waters,  that  would  be  difficult,  perhaps  im- 
possible to  compass  in  the  old  technique.  Almost  all 
seem  happy  to  go  ahead  making  money,  fame,  and 
sometimes  art  on  the  easy  and  anarchic  terms  of  a  period 
of  transition  when  one  technique  has  died  and  another 
has  not  definitely  been  born. 

When  the  new  drama  comes,  what  will  be  its  tech- 
nique, what  form  will  it  take?  In  the  broader  sense, 
of  course,  its  technique  will  be  the  technique  that  has 
always  ruled  the  theatre,  the  technique  of  effective 
human  expression  through  dialogue.  This  implies,  I 
have  always  felt,  two  vital  things:  dialogue  of  which 
almost  every  statement  is  alive  with  interest  either  in 
itself  or  the  situation  it  helps  to  develop,  and  a  gen- 
eral contour  which  masses  the  greater  bulk  of  its  emo- 
tional interest  well  along  towards  the  close  of  the 
play.  Beyond  these  simple  considerations  what  will 
distinguish  the  form  of  the  future  drama? 

It  will  be  free  in  form,  I  think.  So  free,  indeed, 
that  many  will  find  it  far  more  anarchic  than  the  dis- 
integrating form  of  today.  There  will  be  no  form  at 
all  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  Ibsen  formula  for  the  three- 
or  four-act  play.  No  age  has  applied  strict  exterior 
form  without  deadening  the  play.  With  the  Greeks, 
there  were  conventions — the  messenger,  the  ition  or 
causating  and  commemorating  event,  the  deus  ex  ma- 
china,  the  chorus — but  these  were  all  parts  of  the  reli- 
gious ritual  from  which  drama  sprang.    When  the  so- 

237 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

called  Greek  unities  were  forced  upon  drama,  as  they 
were  with  Racine  and  Corneille,  they  hindered  and,  I 
think,  killed  it.  The  Shakespearean  form  had  its 
stock  devices  like  the  subplot,  and  its  general  charac- 
ter remains  true  to  the  conditions  of  the  theatre  from 
which  it  grew,  but  compared  with  the  intricate  ar- 
rangements of  the  well-built  three-act  play  it  seems  al- 
most formless.  At  the  most  it  runs  freely  along  with 
the  mind  of  the  audience. 

One  element  of  form  in  the  play  of  tomorrow  will 
seem  fairly  definite  and  fixed  by  contrast  with  the  real- 
istic form  of  the  past.  This  will  be  a  marked  increase 
in  the  number  of  scenes.  The  noticeable  tendency  in 
our  popular  drama  to  escape  from  the  restrictions  of 
placing  its  scenes  in  only  three  or  four  places  should 
grow.  It  is  a  healthful,  natural  thing.  It  frees  the 
playwright  for  greater  expression  and  it  races  forward 
with  the  imagination  of  the  audience. 

I  had  never  felt  the  hampering  and  artificial  quality 
of  our  three-  and  four-act  convention  until  I  happened 
to  be  connected  with  the  production  of  the  Russian 
drama,  Nju,  by  Ossip  Dymow.  It  seemed  to  me  at 
first  an  odd  and  perhaps  freakish  thing,  this  story  of 
a  young  wife's  unhappiness  and  death  told  in  a  dozen 
short  scenes.  But,  as  I  watched  it  in  rehearsal,  the 
significance  of  what  this  form  permitted  the  author 
to  accomplish  became  clearer  and  clearer  to  me — and 
also  the  restrictions  of  the  older  form. 

238 


THE  FORM  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Squeezing  the  dramatic  elements  of  a  human  story 
into  three  or  four  places  and  periods  of  time  has  its 
positive  value,  of  course.  It  may  create  a  sense  of 
fulness  and  vigor,  of  long-breathed  excitement,  as  the 
action  develops,  piles  up,  and  crashes  down  in  one 
continuous  scene  of  forty-five  minutes  or  even  an  hour 
in  length.  When  the  scene  remains  the  same  through- 
out all  the  acts,  or  still  more  when  the  story  is  prac- 
tically continuous  in  time  throughout  the  whole  play, 
this  effect  of  a  tremendous  single  action  is  very  fine. 
There  are  plots  to  which  such  treatment  is  essential. 

But  such  an  effect  in  a  single  act  or  a  whole  play  can 
be  natural  and  inevitable  only  when  the  story  told  is 
fitted  to  this  form  of  expression.  Few  stories  are  thus 
fitted.  Most  of  them  must  be  distorted  to  fit  the  form. 
The  action  must  be  condensed  from  its  natural  shape. 
It  must  be  telescoped  and  dovetailed  until  it  fits  the 
three  or  four  divisions  of  time  employed.  The  logi- 
cal actions  of  some  of  the  people  of  the  play  must  be 
changed  or  hastened  in  order  to  bring  them  within  the 
limits  of  time  and  place  that  this  form  prescribes. 
Sometimes  the  characters  of  the  people  must  be  al- 
tered; sometimes  those  through  which  the  story  could 
be  best  told  must  be  ignored  for  people  who  happen 
to  fit  the  scenes  selected,  or  unessential  characters  must 
be  added  and  essential  ones  eliminated.  If  you  are 
critical  of  what  you  see  in  the  playhouse,  you  must  be 
conscious  of  the  manoeuvring  of  plot  and  character 

239 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

merely  to  get  them  into  the  room  before  you.  Your 
mind's  eye  sees  the  playwright,  in  false  beard,  lurking 
in  passages  and  alleys  to  serve  the  subpoena  of  the 
drama  on  some  diffident  witness  to  the  truth  of  life. 

The  virtues  of  the  play  of  sixteen  or  even  fourteen 
scenes  are  obvious  by  contrast.  Here — as  in  Nju,  and 
Tolstoy's  Redemption,  with  their  thirteen  scenes — the 
playwright  is  enabled  to  select  out  of  the  life  of  the 
story  and  the  people  of  his  imagination,  just  those  inci- 
dents which  will  illuminate  his  conception.  He  seizes 
the  significant  moments.  He  does  not  have  to  distort  his 
original  conception.  He  gives  us  simply  and  directly, 
with  as  little  compromise  as  possible,  the  original  vi- 
sion of  his  creative  mind. 

It  is  useless  to  deny  that  within  this  form  the  play- 
wrights of  the  future  will  not  be  able  to  achieve  those 
taut  and  suspensive  scenes  of  elaborately  developing 
interplay  of  characters  and  emotions  which  Ibsen 
could  achieve  in  his  long  scenes.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  will  not  be  obligated  to  strive  dishonestly 
for  such  effects  when  his  narrative  does  not  demand 
them;  and  when  it  does  there  is  surely  nothing  to  pre- 
vent his  discarding  the  freedom  of  the  new  form  for 
the  special  opportunities  of  the  old.  Shakespeare 
wrote  Hamlet  so  that  we  now  divide  it  in  twenty  scenes, 
Macbeth  is  printed  in  twenty-nine;  yet  when  the  emo- 
tion of  his  story  demanded  a  scene  of  thirty  minutes 
length,  as  in  Othello  or  Hamlet,  he  was  under  no  ne- 

240 


THE  FORM  OF  THE  FUTURE 

cessity  of  splitting  and  twisting  it  into  a  different  shape 
than  it  naturally  took.  As  for  those  who  believe  that 
the  play  of  short  scenes  suffers  for  lack  of  necessary 
preparation  for  emotion,  and  sacrifices  fullness  of 
character  development,  here  again  the  answer  is 
Shakespeare. 

In  the  increase  in  the  number  of  scenes  the  influence 
of  the  motion  picture  on  the  dramatic  form  is  to  be 
seen,  quite  as  much  as  in  the  introducing  of  tricks  like 
flashbacks,  as  in  On  Trial  and  other  plays.  The  mo- 
tion picture,  freed  of  the  restrictions,  both  physical 
and  theoretical,  which  have  been  imposed  on  the  real- 
istic stage,  is  following  the  natural  impulse  of  the 
human  mind  when  it  speeds  from  scene  to  scene.  It 
is  dramatizing  thought.  The  motion  picture  has  done 
a  great  deal  to  make  us  understand  the  distinctly  sim- 
ilar form  which  Shakespeare  used  in  the  composition 
of  his  plays.  After  years  of  seeing  Shakespeare's 
scenes  cut  up,  rearranged,  condensed  and  telescoped 
in  an  effort  to  fit  them  into  the  form  of  the  current 
play,  we  got  a  sudden  sense  of  the  theatrical  Tightness 
of  his  own  method  when  we  studied  the  screen.  The 
screen  is  a  much  brisker  medium  than  the  stage;  the 
eye  receives  more  quickly  than  the  ear.  For  that 
reason  the  film  scenario  employs  far  more  scenes  than 
are  possible  in  a  play.  Yet  the  principle  of  the  rapidly 
succeeding  scenes  and  episodes  of  a  photoplay  and  of 
a  Shakespearean  drama  is  the  same.     Both  are  follow- 

241 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

ing  a  narrative  naturally  and  as  the  mind  moves.    Vi- 
sion moves  faster  than  hearing,  that  is  all. 

In  its  use  of  many  scenes,  arranged  in  whatever 
order  seems  either  natural  or  dramatically  appropri- 
ate, the  drama  of  the  future  will  be  no  more  imitating 
the  movies,  nor  hypnotized  by  them,  than  was  Shake- 
speare. Yet  unquestionably  the  motion  picture  has 
done  and  will  do  a  great  deal  to  hasten  our  return 
to  freer  and  more  direct  dramatic  methods.  It  will 
also  carry  us  on  to  other  changes  in  technique  which 
would  have  come  slowly,  if  at  all,  without  the  influence 
of  the  screen  and  the  stimulus  that  it  has  given  certain 
of  our  aesthetic  processes.  The  screen  has  developed 
our  quickness  of  perception;  the  result  will  be  quicker 
dramatic  movement  on  the  stage  and  less  necessity  for 
emphasis  and  re-emphasis.  The  screen  has  come 
closer  than  the  stage  to  our  unconscious  mind,  because 
it  has  operated  through  sight,  a  sense  that  perceives 
directly  and  not,  like  the  ear,  through  words  alone.  It 
has,  therefore,  often  avoided  a  great  deal  of  the  false 
rationalizing  of  the  conscious  mind.  I  believe  that  in 
our  future  drama  this  logic  of  the  eye  will  tend  to  en- 
croach upon  the  logic  of  the  mind,  as  the  new  stage- 
craft makes  the  qualities  and  the  atmosphere  of  scenes 
more  visually  evident.  As  on  the  screen,  there  will 
be  room  for  silence;  silence  sometimes  explains  more 
than  speech.  Dialogue  will  grow  more  condensed. 
It  will  seek  less  to  imitate  the  rambling  uncertainties 

242 


THE  FORM  OF  THE  FUTURE 

of  natural  speech.  It  will  go  to  the  point  sharply  and 
briefly.  Something  of  the  directness  of  the  motion 
picture  subtitle  or  printed  caption  will  invade  the 
stage.  Playwrights  will  come  closer  to  the  condensa- 
tion of  the  advertising  writer.  And  the  soliloquy 
will  return  again  as  a  natural  and  proper  revelation 
of  the  mind  of  a  character.  Even  the  aside  may  rede- 
velop as  a  deliberate  piece  of  theatricalism.  It  will 
not  be  the  slovenly  device  of  a  playwright  for  telling 
us  something  that  he  is  too  lazy  or  inexpert  to  impart 
in  any  other  way,  but  a  frank  and  open  intercourse 
between  the  actor  and  his  audience,  a  reaffirmation 
that  this  is  a  play  which  is  being  acted,  a  remarkable 
game  between  these  two. 

I  am  not  one  of  those  who  look  for  a  theatre  of  pure 
action.  But  I  do  feel  that  other  factors  than  dialogue 
will  play  an  increasing  part  in  the  future  drama.  The 
screen  has  necessarily  relegated  the  word  to  too  insig- 
nificant a  place,  yet  it  has  brought  to  our  consciousness 
the  possibilities  of  other  mediums  as  means  for  rein- 
forcing dramatic  expression.  In  particular,  its  thea- 
tres have  shown  what  music  can  do  in  strengthening 
our  sense  of  mood  and  movement.  The  new  art  of  the 
theatre  is  unquestionably  to  be  a  closer  linking  of  many 
other  arts.  The  dramatist  of  the  future  will  think 
more  in  terms  of  color,  design,  movement,  music,  and 
less  in  words  alone. 

When  he  does  think  in  terms  of  words  alone,  how 

243 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

will  he  think?  Will  he  still  think  in  prose?  Largely, 
I  believe.  He  will  certainly  not  think  for  whole  hours 
in  blank  verse.  The  fact  that  Shakespeare  managed 
to  do  this,  that  he  was  able  to  give  variety  to  the  mo- 
notonous te-tum  te-tum  te-tum  te-tum  te-tum  of  this 
verse  form,  is  perhaps  the  greatest  tribute  to  his  techni- 
cal power.  There  may  be  verse  in  the  future  drama, 
plenty  of  it;  but  it  will  not  be  limited  to  a  single  meas- 
ure. It  will  fit  the  emotion  of  the  scene,  and  change 
as  the  emotion  changes.  Sometimes  it  will  be  heavy 
with  fate,  then  bright  and  light  with  happy  romance, 
or  it  will  sweep  up  magnificently  with  a  soaring  lift. 
The  measure  will  suit  the  moment  as  completely  as  the 
time  and  the  rhythm  of  the  composer  fit  the  various 
scenes  of  his  opera.  Hints  of  this,  but  no  more,  have 
appeared  in  two  plays  by  Percy  MacKaye,  A  Thou- 
sand Years  Ago  and  Sappho  and  Phaon.  Zoe  Akins 
tried  free  verse  in  The  Magical  City;  Robert  Emmons 
Rogers  made  the  most  successful  attempt  at  a  fluid  and 
varied  handling  of  dramatic  poetry  in  Behind  a  Wat- 
teau  Picture.  There  is  variety  of  meter  in  Sidney  How- 
ard's Swords.  Only  perhaps  in  Alfred  Kreymborg's 
eccentric  and  delightful  little  plays  such  as  Lima 
Beans  is  there  any  attempt  on  the  part  of  an  English- 
speaking  playwright  to  explore  the  rich  field  of  brisk 
and  sprightly  meters  which  give  a  director  unusual 
opportunities  as  well  as  require  unusual  skill  on  his 
part.     Otherwise  little  has  been  written  and  less  acted 

244 


THE  FORM  OF  THE  FUTURE 

in  America  or  England  that  is  not  conventional 
blank  verse;  it  is  one  of  the  eternal  puzzles  of  the  thea- 
tre— that  playwrights  attempting  verse  have  clung  so 
desperately  to  a  single  meter  throughout  and  to  only 
one  of  the  many  possible  meters.  The  fact  that  it  is 
the  nearest  to  English  prose  perhaps  accounts  for  it. 

For  English  prose  can  be  a  wonderful  and  a  beauti- 
ful thing.  So  beautiful,  in  fact,  and  so  strong,  that 
I  am  personally  of  the  belief  not  only  that  prose  will 
be  the  dominant  form  of  expression  in  the  future,  but 
that  it  will  meet  almost  every  requirement  of  emo- 
tional expression  upon  the  stage  for  which  verse  would 
be  essential  in  the  printed  book.  Rhythmed  prose,  of 
course,  but  simple  concrete  prose,  the  English  of  the 
King  James  version  of  the  Bible.  In  the  last  decade 
or  two,  such  English  has  been  written  for  the  stage  and 
written  superbly,  by  Synge,  by  Masefield  in  Nan  and 
Pompey,  by  Drinkwater,  by  Cannan  in  Miles  Dixon, 
by  Dunsany,  and  by  O'Neill  in  The  Emperor  Jones. 

Though  Dunsany  is  so  often  hopelessly  artificial, 
precious,  and  literary,  he  is  just  as  often  the  master  of 
the  simple  and  direct  speech  which  is  clear  with  the 
images  of  life.  One  example  from  The  Golden  Doom 
should  suffice.  The  guards  are  standing  in  the  beating 
sun  outside  the  gates  of  Babylon.  They  are  very  hot. 
One  says :  "I  would  I  were  swimming  down  the  Gishon 
on  the  cool  side  under  the  fruit  trees."  The  word 
"would"  I  object  to;  it  is  literary  archaism.     But  the 

245 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

rest  is,  within  its  simple  limits,  perfect.  There  is  no 
folderol  about  it;  no  talk  of  being  "laved  by  trans- 
lucent waters,  where  the  pomegranate  spreadeth  its 
blossoms."  Every  word  is  the  simple,  natural  word; 
every  word  calls  up  a  picture  and  the  right  picture; 
the  rhythm  is  clear  and  flowing  like  the  water. 

Synge  does  the  same  thing  even  more  admirably. 
His  plays  are  full  of  such  writing.  Recall  just  one 
example  from  In  the  Shadow  of  the  Glen: 

"We'll  be  going  now,  I'm  telling  you,  and  the  time 
you'll  be  feeling  the  cold,  and  the  frost,  and  the  great 
rain,  and  the  sun  again,  and  the  south  wind  blowing 
in  the  glens,  you'll  not  be  sitting  up  on  a  wet  ditch, 
the  way  you're  after  sitting  in  this  place,  making  your- 
self old  with  looking  on  each  day,  and  it  passing  you 
by." 

Masefield,  a  poet  who  turns  all  too  rarely  to  the  thea- 
tre, senses,  when  he  does  turn  to  it,  the  essential  sim- 
plicity and  yet  the  essential  vividness  of  the  spoken 
word.  I  might  quote  the  whole  closing  scene  of  his 
Tragedy  of  Nan  as  a  splendid  example  of  this.  In- 
stead, consider  this  from  Pompey: 

"The  greatest  man  in  the  world!  And  all  through 
being  with  Sulla  in  the  Civil  War.  Supposing  he 
were  not  great,  Philip.  Only  a  big  clay  statue.  A 
statue  propped  up  by  sticks.  A  clay  thing,  gilded. 
,Rats  gnawing  at  it.  The  wind  shaking  it.  The  sun 
cracking  it.     {Pause.)    And  dead  men,  Philip.    Dead 

246 


THE  FORM  OF  THE  FUTURE 

men  underneath  it  in  the  dust,  fumbling  at  it  to  bring 
it  down." 

Wherever  the  dramatist  of  tomorrow  may  find  his 
form — and  it  may  be  farther  from  the  movies  than  I 
think — it  will  be  a  form  that  has  room  in  it  not  alone 
for  action,  music,  dance,  color,  line  and  movement,  but 
also  for  the  magnificent  prose  that  you  find  in  the 
speech  of  the  greatest  and  the  simplest  of  our  people. 


247 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

IT  is  easy  to  discover  in  the  degeneration  of  the 
dramatic  form  today  indications  of  the  shape  that 
the  play  of  tomorrow  will  take — a  loose,  free  shape 
with  many  scenes,  less  talk  and  more  vitality  in  its 
production.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  grasp  its  content.  Yet 
even  there  we  have  indications  already  of  broad  trends 
which  it  seems  difficult  for  the  future  drama  to  escape. 

Perhaps  the  simplest  and  surest  statement  that  I 
should  risk  is  this:  It  will  attempt  to  transfer  to  dra- 
matic art  the  illumination  of  those  deep  and  vigorous 
and  eternal  processes  of  the  human  soul  which  the 
psychology  of  Freud  and  Jung  has  given  us  through 
study  of  the  unconscious,  striking  to  the  heart  of  emo- 
tion and  linking  our  commonest  life  today  with  the 
emanations  of  the  primitive  racial  mind. 

The  attempts  to  get  back  of  realism  to  reality — 
which  is  in  art  nothing  but  the  exploration  of  the  un- 
conscious mind  below  the  appearance  and  pretense  of 
man — have  been  few  as  yet,  halting,  obvious  or  extrava- 
gant, but  at  least  suggestive. 

In  their  crudest  and  most  literal  form  they  appear 

248 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

in  attempts  to  present  upon  the  stage  the  thoughts  or 
the  unconscious  motives  of  characters.  In  Alice  Ger- 
stenberg's  Overtones,  for  example,  while  two  women 
go  through  the  formalities  of  social  intercourse  their 
deeper  selves,  standing  veiled  behind  them,  betray  to 
the  audience  their  true  attitudes,  emotions  and  desires. 
Sometimes  the  whole  dialogue  of  these  playlets — for 
they  have  never  dared  go  beyond  the  one-act  form — is 
merely  the  unspoken  thoughts  of  the  people  made  au- 
dible by  the  free  convention  of  the  aside.  Thus  in 
They  by  Herve  Lauwick,  a  man  and  a  woman  sitting 
opposite  each  other  in  a  railroad  carriage  speculate 
upon  one  another's  charms  and  matrimonial  estate,  and 
H.  L.  Mencken  in  his  amusing  skit,  The  Artist,  re- 
veals the  secret  thoughts  of  the  famous  pianist  and 
his  audience  during  a  recital.  Such  games  are  enter- 
taining novelties  hardly  more  than  indicating  a  public 
curiosity.  They  do  not  touch  the  soul-searing  inner 
revelation  of  such  a  bizarrerie  as  Strindberg's  Spook 
Sonata. 

On  the  other  hand  three  schools  of  playwrights  have 
arisen  that  nourish  more  or  less  complete  philosophies 
of  a  new  drama,  and  attempt  with  greatly  varying  suc- 
cess to  project  these  theories  into  dramatic  action. 
The  first  of  these  schools  is  known  to  those  outside 
its  home  only  by  the  works  of  its  founder,  Yevreynoff, 
though  there  must,  of  course,  be  followers  for  so  bril- 
liant and   provocative  a  theorist  and  creator.     Yev- 

249 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

reynoff's  theory  of  "mono-drama" — that  the  whole 
play,  its  action,  its  setting  and  all  its  people,  should 
be  seen  by  the  audience  through  the  eyes  of  one  char- 
acter only,  as  the  hero  sees  them,  and  should  take  on 
the  quality,  color,  movement  and  motives  which  his 
mind  conceives  them  to  possess — may  end  in  nothing 
more  than  an  entertaining  or  a  rather  incomprehensible 
"stunt."  It  cannot  well  escape  unless  it  penetrates  not 
merely  what  the  hero  thinks  he  thinks,  but  his  uncon- 
scious mind  as  well,  and  represents  not  what  he  thinks 
but  what  he  desires.  Yevreynoffs  best  known  piece, 
The  Theatre  of  the  Soul,  is  a  playlet  suggestive  of 
Overtones,  but  it  goes  much  deeper  into  dual  mental 
states.  From  the  name  of  a  playhouse  now  function- 
ing in  Moscow,  the  Dramatic  Mono-Theatre,  it  may 
be  guessed  that  YevreynofFs  theory  has  gone  far  to- 
wards practical  exploitation  since  he  formulated  it 
more  than  ten  years  ago. 

The  second  school  of  what  might  be  called  advanced 
dramaturgy  issued  its  manifesto,  The  Futurist  Syn- 
thetic Theatre,  in  19 15,  over  the  signatures  of  F.  T. 
Marinetti,  Emilion  Settimelli  and  Bruno  Corra. 
From  its  theories  and  its  plays,  as  interpreted  and  trans- 
lated by  Isaac  Goldberg,  the  futurist  movement  in  the 
theatre  seems  characteristically  violent  and  freakish. 
Yet  there  lies  hidden  in  it  evidence  of  a  not  unhealthful 
rebellion  against  surface-realism.  It  is  "anti-techni- 
cal"; it  despises  the  elaborate  and  tedious  mechanism 

250 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

of  exposition,  preparation,  motivation,  climax.  It  is 
opposed  to  logical  action:  "For  example,  it  is  stupid  to 
represent  upon  the  stage  a  struggle  between  two  per- 
sons, always  carried  on  with  order,  logic  and  clarity; 
while  in  our  experience  we  find  almost  exclusively 
fragments  of  disputes  which  our  activity  as  modern 
men  has  permitted  us  to  witness  for  but  a  moment  in  the 
street  car,  in  a  cafe,  at  a  station,  and  which  have  re- 
mained filmed  (cinematografati)  upon  our  minds 
as  dynamic,  fragmentary  symphonies  of  gestures, 
words,  sounds  and  light." 

Goldberg  thus  sums  up  the  theory  of  the  futurists  in 
an  article  in  The  Boston  Transcript:  "These,  then,  are 
the  conclusions  arrived  at  by  the  signers  of  the  mani- 
festo: First,  the  total  abolition  of  the  technique  under 
the  burden  of  which  the  'passatist'  theatre  is  dying  out. 
Second,  to  place  upon  the  'boards'  all  the  discoveries 
being  made  in  the  realms  of  the  subconscious,  in  ill- 
defined  forces,  in  pure  abstraction,  in  pure  cerebral- 
ism,  pure  fantasy.  Third,  the  invasion  of  the  audi- 
torium and  the  spectators  by  the  scenic  action.  Fourth, 
to  fraternize  warmly  with  the  actors,  who  are  among 
the  only  thinkers  who  flee  every  deforming  cultural 
effort.  Fifth,  to  abolish  farce,  vaudeville,  pochade, 
drama,  tragedy,  and  create  such  new  forms  as  the 
'battute  in  liberta'  (free  blows),  'simultanetta'  (simul- 
taneity), 'compenetration,'  the  'animated  poem/  the 

251 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

'sceniefied  sensation/  the  'dialogued  hilarity,'  the  'neg- 
ative act'  and  so  onward." 

The  curious  plays  which  Marinetti  has  written  and 
published  explain  some  of  these  mysterious  forms. 
Most  of  the  pieces  are  very  short,  some  hardly  two  or 
three  pages  long.  Through  most  of  them  Marinetti 
betrays  a  modern  and  thoroughly  unliterary  sense  of 
the  part  that  light  and  setting  can  play  in  action.  One 
piece  shows  only  the  feet  of  the  performers,  while  the 
rest  of  their  bodies  are  hidden  by  a  black  curtain  that 
reaches  almost  to  the  floor.  Another  sets  hands  mov- 
ing in  a  series  of  symbolic  gestures  above  another  black 
curtain.  In  others  the  furniture  speaks  and  the  lights 
are  expected  to  give  them  a  semblance  of  movement. 

The  most  characteristic  feature  of  Marinetti's 
method  is  what  he  calls  "simultaneity"  and  "compen- 
etration"  and  from  which  the  "synthesis"  of  the  Fu- 
turist Synthetic  Theatre  is  derived.  It  is  the  presenta- 
tion of  two  or  three  places  simultaneously  on  the  stage 
and  the  juxtaposition  of  people  and  actions  whose  only 
relationship  is  perhaps  spiritual.  So  far  as  the  phys- 
ical arrangement  of  this  is  concerned,  Marinetti 
merely  harks  back  to  the  platform  stage  of  the  French 
mystery  plays,  where  Heaven  occupied  one  end  of  the 
stage,  Hell  the  other,  and  between  them  appeared  half 
a  dozen  other  places,  just  as  in  his  enthusiasm  for 
improvisational  and  spontaneous  acting  he  touches  the 
commedia  dell'  arte.    While  there  is  no  simultaneity  of 

252 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

setting  in  his  playlet,  On  a  Moonlit  Night,  the  presence 
of  an  unseen  and  symbolic  gentleman  during  a  love 
scene  carries  the  quality  of  "compenetration."  To 
show  the  nature  of  futurist  drama  I  quote  this  "anti- 
logical  compenetration"  from  Goldberg's  translation: 

Scene:  A  Garden.     A  Bench. 

He — What  a  beautiful  night!  Let  us  sit  down 
here.  .  .  . 

She — How  fragrant  the  air  is! 

He — We  are  all  alone,  we  two,  in  this  vast  garden. 
.  .  .  Aren't  you  afraid? 

She — No.  .  .  .  No.  ...  I  am  so  happy  to  be  here 
alone  with  you. 

A  Stout,  Heavy-paunched  Gentleman  (Enters 
from  a  side-path,  approaches  the  couple,  sits  down 
upon  the  bench  beside  them.  They  do  not  see  him 
however,  as  if  he  were  an  invisible  personage) — Hum. 
Hum.     (He  stares  at  the  maiden  while  she  speaks.) 

She — Did  you  feel  that  breeze? 

The  Stout,  Heavy-paunched  Gentleman — Hum. 
Hum.  (He  stares  at  the  young  maiden  while  he 
speaks.) 

He — It  isn't  the  breeze. 

She — But  isn't  there  really  anybody  in  this  garden? 

He — Only  the  watchman,  yonder,  in  his  cottage. 
He's  asleep.  Come  here  closer.  .  .  .  Give  me  your 
lips.  .  .  .  So. 

The  Stout,  Heavy-paunched  Gentleman  —  Hum. 
Hum.  (Looks  at  his  watch  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
rises,  walks  about  pensively  in  front  of  the  two  as  they 
kiss,  and  then  sits  down  again). 

She — What  a  beautiful  night! 

He — How  fragrant  the  air  is! 

253 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

The  Stout,  Heavy-paunched  Gentleman — Hum. 
Hum. 

He — Why  are  you  trembling?  Did  something 
frighten  you? 

She — No.     Kiss  me  again. 

The  Stout,  Heavy-paunched  Gentleman  (Looks 
again  at  his  watch  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  rises, 
walks  behind  the  bench,  unseen,  and  lightly  touches 
first  her  shoulder,  then  his,  and  disappears  slowly  into 
the  background). 

She — What  a  shudder! 

He — It's  getting  somewhat  cold.  .  .  . 

She — Late,  too. 

He — Let's  go  in.    What  do  you  say? 

The  remaining  school  stems  from  the  "expression- 
ist" movement  in  German  art.  Like  expressionism  it- 
self, which  includes  almost  any  variety  of  revolt  from 
representative  art,  this  dramatic  movement  is  much 
more  inclusive,  and  much  sounder  in  theory  than  Mar- 
inetti's.  Moreover  it  has  produced  long  plays  of 
arresting  merit. 

Since  expressionism  itself  is  an  attempt  to  escape 
from  representing  nature  in  the  terms  of  its  effect  on 
the  artist,  and  instead  to  present  the  emotion  of  the 
artist  in  terms  of  either  nature  or  abstract  form,  its 
drama  is  at  utter  odds  with  realism.  It  must  use 
nature  or  man  as  the  medium  of  expression  but  it  sub- 
dues the  appearance  of  the  natural  world  to  the  inner 
reality  of  the  emotion  which  it  wishes  to  make  clear  to 
us.    The  parallelism  between  painting  and  drama  is 

254 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

not  exact — except  perhaps  in  the  scrapping  of  slow 
and  tedious  old  methods  of  technique  which  hamper 
the  clear  and  spontaneous  flow  of  creation — but  the  re- 
sult is  distinctive  and  often  sound.  In  its  extremist 
form,  as  fostered  by  the  "Sturm"  group,  it  runs  off  into 
the  absurdity  of  Mallarme  and  his  L'Apres-midi  d'un 
faune,  the  dependence  on  sound  rather  than  sense  of 
words.  Dr.  Goldberg,  who  has  done  so  much  to  make 
America  acquainted  with  the  byways  of  European  and 
South  American  literature,  thus  translates  the  avowed 
purpose  of  this  faction  to  attempt  "the  pure,  immediate 
effect  of  the  word,  freed  from  all  rational,  logical  or 
grammatical  bonds." 

The  "Aktion"  group  and  unattached  expressionists 
follow  a  saner  path.  They  begin  with  the  prime  san- 
ity of  abjuring  realism.  Edsmid,  one  of  the  theorists, 
has  admirably  expressed  in  a  single  epigram  the  whole 
quarrel  with  literal  representation:  "The  world  is 
here;  it  would  be  absurd  to  repeat  it."  Goldberg  thus 
sums  up  the  philosophy  of  the  movement  as  it  is  ex- 
pressed by  Manfred  Schneider  in  Der  Expressionis- 
mus  in  Drama:  "It  designs  for  the  stage  a  musicality 
of  word,  a  broad  sweep,  a  vast  simplicity,  a  preference 
for  types  rather  than  well-characterized  individuality, 
the  whole  to  be  infused  with,  or  suffused  in,  an  at- 
mosphere of  exaltation.  The  expressionists  favor  in- 
tuition rather  than  artifice,  even  in  the  acting.  They 
would  fill  their  pieces  with  ideas,  yet  shun  the  'thesis 

255 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

play.'  They  would  produce  the  impression  of  deep 
feeling,  yet  without  what  we  are  accustomed  to  term 
psychology  in  drama.  Most  of  all  they  would  aban- 
don the  ivory  tower  and  seek  social,  universal  signifi- 
cance." The  expressionists  are  never  seduced  by  ro- 
manticism as  an  escape  from  this  world  and  from  real- 
ism. The  expressionists,  like  the  futurists,  deny  the 
contributions  of  modern  psychological  study  of  char- 
acter. They  believe  it  ends  in  an  absorption  with 
minutiae.  It  carries  us  away  from  "The  free  man  de- 
livered by  the  essential  and  by  the  spiritual." 

Among  the  men  who  have  written  thus  are  Kurt 
Sternheim,  Paul  Kornfeld,  Walter  Hasenclever,  Franz 
Werfel,  Friederich  Wolf,  Fritz  von  Unruh,  the  painter 
Kokoschka  and — the  most  effective  and  the  most  pop- 
ular— Georg  Kaiser.  Their  work  has  ranged  from 
a  new  Antigone  to  tales  as  strange  as  Poe's.  Let  us 
examine  one  of  Kaiser's  dramas  which  has  been  pro- 
duced by  Reinhardt  in  Berlin,  presented  experiment- 
ally in  London  by  the  Stage  Society,  and  filmed  in 
Germany. 

From  Morn  to  Midnight  tells  in  seven  scenes  the 
adventures  of  a  man  who  begins  the  morning  as  a 
bank  clerk,  steals  a  fortune  because  his  senses  are  swept 
for  a  moment  by  a  woman  whom  he  imagines  to  be 
an  adventuress,  lives  out  a  number  of  modern  methods 
of  dissipation  when  he  finds  she  wants  nothing  to  do 
with  him,  and  ends  a  suicide  in  a  Salvation  Army 

256 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Hall.  It  is  amazingly  staccato.  Even  the  soliloquies 
with  which  it  is  liberally  supplied  are  crisp  and  sharp. 
It  is  shot  with  terror  and  with  humor.  Both  cut  close 
to  those  strange  psychic  realities  of  life  which  come 
often  with  the  effect  of  a  hypnotic  interlude  in  logical 
normal  existence. 

When  the  clerk  is  crossing  a  field  of  snow  in  his 
flight  with  the  money  he  takes  off  his  wet,  soiled  cuffs 
and  throws  them  aside  saying:  "Soiled.  There  they 
lie.  Missing  in  the  wash.  The  mourners  will  cry 
through  the  kitchen :  A  pair  of  cuffs  is  lost.  A  catas- 
trophe in  the  boiler.  A  world  in  chaos."  Suddenly 
the  wind  shakes  the  branches  of  a  tree,  and  the  snow- 
flakes,  descending  lower,  cling  in  the  form  of  a  skele- 
ton. The  man  pays  no  heed  except  to  jeer.  He  re- 
joices, rather  desperately  perhaps,  that  circumstances 
have  made  him  over  from  a  trusted  employee  into  a 
criminal  who  is  to  taste  life  at  last.  "I'll  open  my 
breast  to  Fate;  all  comers  are  welcome."  He  stops 
at  his  home  for  a  last  look.  He  leaves  without  eat- 
ing his  luncheon.  Routine  upset.  His  mother  "beats 
the  air  suddenly  with  her  arms;  and  falls  senseless." 
"She  dies,"  he  reflects,  "because  a  man  goes  out  of  the 
house  before  a  meal."  And,  a  criminal  and  a  free 
man,  he  is  to  go  so  far. 

He  goes  first  to  a  great  bicycle  race  to  buy  excite- 
ment.    Here  occurs  one  of  the  remarkable  and  char- 

257 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

acteristic  scenes  of  the  play.    He  offers  fabulous  prizes 
to  the  racers,  and  then  watches — the  crowd. 

First  Gentleman — But  you  must  keep  your  eye  on 
the  track,  and  watch  the  varying  course  of  the  strug- 
gle  

Cashier — Childish,  this  sport.  One  rider  must  win 
because  the  other  loses.  .  .  .  Look  up,  I  say.  It's 
there,  among  the  crowd,  that  the  magic  works.  The 
wine  ferments  in  this  vast  barrel  of  spectators.  The 
frothing  is  least  at  the  bottom,  among  the  well-bred 
public  in  the  stalls.  There  you  see  nothing  but  looks 
.  .  .  but  what  looks!  Round  stares.  Eyes  of  cattle. 
.  .  .  One  row  higher  the  bodies  sway  and  vibrate,  the 
limbs  begin  to  dance.  A  few  cries  are  heard.  Your 
respectable  middle  class.  .  .  .  Higher  still  all  veils 
are  dropped.  A  wild  fanatic  shout,  a  bellowing  naked- 
ness, a  gallery  of  passions.  .  .  .  Just  look  at  that 
group.  Five  times  entwined,  five  heads  dancing  on 
one  shoulder,  five  pairs  of  arms  beating  time  across 
one  howling  breast.  At  the  heart  of  this  monster  is 
a  single  man.  He's  being  crushed  .  .  .  mangled  .  .  . 
thrust  over  the  parapet.  His  hat,  crumpled,  falls 
through  the  rising  smoke  .  .  .  flutters  into  the  middle 
balcony,  lights  upon  a  lady's  bosom.  She  pays  no 
heed.  There  it  rests  daintily  ...  so  daintily.  She'll 
never  notice  the  hat;  she'll  go  to  bed  with  it;  year  in 
year  out,  she'll  carry  this  hat  upon  her  breast.  (The 
applause  swells.) 

258 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

First  Gentleman — The  Dutchman  is  putting  on  a 
spurt. 

Cashier — The  middle  row  joins  in  the  shout.  An 
alliance  has  been  made;  the  hat  has  done  the  trick. 
The  lady  crushes  it  against  the  rails.  Pretty  lady, 
your  bosom  will  show  the  marks  of  this.  There's  no 
help  for  it.  Madness  to  struggle.  The  throng  presses 
you  against  the  rails,  and  you  must  yield.  You  must 
grant  all.  .  .  . 

Second  Gentleman — Do  you  know  the  lady? 

Cashier — See  now,  the  five  up  there  have  thrust 
their  one  over  the  balustrade.  He  swings  free,  he 
loosens  his  hold,  he  drops — he  sails  down  into  the  stalls. 
What  has  become  of  him?  Vanished.  Swallowed, 
stifled,  absorbed.     A  raindrop  in  a  maelstrom. 

First  Gentleman — The  Hamburger  is  making  up 
ground. 

Cashier — The  stalls  are  frantic.  The  falling  man 
has  set  up  contact.  Restraint  can  go  to  the  devil. 
Dinner-jackets  quiver.  Shirt  fronts  begin  to  split. 
Studs  fly  in  all  directions.  Lips  are  parted,  jaws  are 
rattling.  Above  and  below — all  distinctions  are  lost. 
One  universal  yell  from  every  tier.  Pandemonium. 
Climax. 

He  offers  a  still  larger  prize.  The  crowd  is  ec- 
static. Suddenly  a  hush.  Majesty  has  entered  its  box. 
The  cashier  takes  back  his  offer,  withdraws  his  "sub- 
scription to  the  society  of  hunchbacks."     "This  glow- 

259 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

ing  fire  extinguished,  .  .  .  trodden  out  by  the  patent- 
leather  boot  of  His  Highness.  You  take  me  for  crazy 
if  you  think  I  will  throw  one  single  penny  under  the 
snouts  of  these  grovelling  dogs,  these  crooked  lackeys." 
Off  goes  the  cashier  to  sample  the  disillusionments 
of  a  private  room  in  a  cabaret.  The  end  is  a  scene  in 
a  Salvation  Army  hall,  with  all  the  fervid  concomitants 
of  confessions  and  penitents.  The  sin  of  humdrum 
domesticity,  as  much  as  the  sins  of  crime,  of  pride, 
of  self-display,  is  confessed.  At  last  the  cashier  is 
swamped  by  the  emotion  of  it.  He  rushes  to  the  plat- 
form, and,  beside  a  Salvation  Army  lass,  confesses  his 
crime.  Also  the  futility  of  all  that  he  had  won  until 
now  as  a  result  of  it.  "What  is  the  goal,"  he  cries, 
"what  is  the  prize  that's  worth  the  whole  stake?  This 
hall,  humming  with  crowded  benches,  ringing  with 
melody.  This  hall.  Here,  from  stool  to  stool,  the 
spirit  thunders  fulfilment.  Here  glow  the  twin  cru- 
cibles: confession  and  repentance.  Molten  and  free 
from  dross,  the  soul  stands  like  a  glittering  tower, 
strong  and  bright."  He  cries  that  money  can  buy 
nothing  worth  while.  He  throws  it  to  the  crowded  hall 
to  be  torn  and  trampled  under  foot.  Instead,  of  course, 
there  is  a  wild  scramble  for  the  notes,  and  the  hall 
empties  its  fighting  load.  Another  disillusion.  But 
still  there  is  the  Salvation  Army  girl  beside  him.  He 
grasps  this  comradeship  as  the  last  good.  Wildly 
drumming,  he  shouts:  "Maiden  and  man  .  .  .  eternal 

260 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

constancy.  Maiden  and  man  .  .  .  fullness  in  the  void 
.  .  .  the  seed  and  the  flower.  Maiden  and  man  .  .  . 
a  sense  and  aim  and  goal."  While  he  chants,  the  girl 
slips  out — to  bring  a  policeman  and  earn  the  reward 
for  his  capture.  The  policeman  turns  out  the  lights. 
The  electric  wires  glitter  in  the  shape  of  the  skeleton 
again.  The  man  has  run  raging  in  a  circle  to  reach 
the  end.  He  shoots  himself  and  as  the  lights  go  up 
he  falls  back  against  the  big  cross  on  the  platform. 
"His  husky  gasp  is  like  an  'ecce,'  his  heavy  sigh  is  like 
a  'homo'!  One  second  later  all  the  lights  explode  with 
a  loud  report." 

From  Morn  to  Midnight  is  a  bizarre  piece  that 
breaks  far  too  many  dramaturgic  idols  for  popularity 
here  and  now,  yet  it  is  unquestionably  filled  with  a  very 
intense  sense  of  the  deep  emotional  background  against 
which  life  passes.  Kaiser  has  succeeded  in  getting 
past  the  surface  of  reality.  He  has  penetrated  the 
basic  stratum  of  man's  psyche.  To  do  this,  I  take  it,  is 
the  purpose  of  expressionism.  It  is  certainly  the  task 
of  the  drama  of  tomorrow,  if  it  is  going  to  replace 
realism  with  something  truer  than  romance.  The 
problem  of  the  future  playwright  is  to  escape  from 
realism  without  turning  his  back  on  the  world. 

He  must  see  with  Storm  Jameson,  as  she  has  ex- 
pressed it  in  her  Modern  Drama  in  Europe  that  "The 
stage  of  today  is  crowded  by  characters  whose  names 
we  forget,  whose  features  fade  away  in  the  indeter- 

261 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

minate  mass  of  their  herd,  and  whose  deeds,  if  they  ac- 
complish anything,  matter  not  at  all  for  the  action  of 
the  play  or  for  the  revelation  of  personality."  And, 
questioning  realism,  the  future  playwright  may  well 
ask  with  Miss  Jameson:  "Whence  has  arisen  this  con- 
ception of  drama  as  the  unfolding  of  small  questions 
of  sex,  with  little  of  inspiration  and  with  less  of  beauty, 
this  purposeless  effort  which  seems  to  be  both  symptom 
and  warning?"  But  he  must  be  careful  lest — aided 
not  a  little  by  the  pictorial  possibilities  of  the  modern 
stage — he  ends  merely  in  a  neo-romanticism. 

The  danger  is  evident,  for  the  first  move  away  from 
realism  in  America  has  been  towards  the  picturesque, 
the  costume  play,  the  drama  of  alien  borders.  That  is 
not  enough.  That  is  mere  narcoticism.  Unless  as  I 
think,  this  desire  for  the  exotic  is  simply  a  means  to 
bringing  imagination  into  our  time  and  our  own  place. 
The  romantic  play,  with  modern  psychological  under- 
standing of  character  added,  will  be  a  better  thing  than 
the  romantic  play  of  a  hundred  years  ago.  It  will 
give  us  back  a  hero  or  two  worth  worrying  over,  but 
surely  no  sense  of  the  imminences  of  our  own  life. 

I  believe  the  return  of  the  picturesque  play  may  be 
hopeful  for  many  reasons.  It  is  to  begin  with,  an  evi- 
dence of  the  attempt  of  imagination  to  gain  a  foothold 
in  the  drama  to  match  the  position  it  has  assumed  in 
stagecraft  and  production.  More  important,  however, 
this  seems  to  me  the  first  step  in  bringing  fresh  spiritual 

262 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

qualities  into  the  plays  that  treat  of  our  own  humdrum 
life.  We  will  accept  an  imaginative  treatment  of  hu- 
man beings  in  an  unaccustomed  locale  while  we  would 
ban  it  if  the  place  were  Main  Street  or  Harlem.  First 
we  must  hear  of  Fate  in  Krongros.  Later  we  will  lis- 
ten with  an  open  mind  if  a  playwright  talks  about 
something  besides  dollars  in  Wall  Street.  Perhaps  the 
German  expressionists  like  Georg  Kaiser  have  been 
able  to  write  so  soon  of  bank  clerks  because  Germany 
has  long  known  Shakespeare,  von  Hofmannsthahl, 
Maeterlinck,  Schiller,  Goethe,  Hebbel. 

As  imaginative  and  spiritual  values  enter  the  drama 
of  our  life,  "psychology"  will  partially  go  out.  One 
need  not  go  as  far  as  Marinetti  and  the  Italian  futur- 
ists, or  even  as  far  as  the  German  expressionists  in 
decrying  minute  absorption  in  the  conscious  mind  of 
characters;  and  yet  one  must  recognize  that  the  larger 
issues  of  the  spirit,  and  the  larger  sense  of  life  rise 
above  accurate  representation  of  average  people. 
They  strive  to  present  some  corner  of  the  soul  of  things 
as  it  grasps  human  beings.  Storm  Jameson  says  in  her 
vigorous  attack  on  the  pettiness  of  our  dramatic  fig- 
ures :  "Tragedy  is  a  matter  of  great  souls."  The  new 
playwright  will  recognize  something  a  little  deeper 
when  he  sees  that  drama  is  a  matter  of  souls  caught  in 
great  spiritual  issues  and  reflecting  them.  The  gran- 
deur of  the  play  of  the  future  must  lie  not  in  a  super- 
human figure,  but  in  the  vast  and  eternal  forces  of 

263 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

life  which  we  are  made  to  recognize  as  they  play  upon 
him.  The  expressionist  puts  it  rather  rhetorically 
when  he  writes:  "Let  the  characters  be  great  in  the 
sense  that  their  existence,  their  lives,  share  the  great 
existence  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth — that  their  hearts, 
united  to  all  that  occurs,  beat  in  time  with  the  universe." 
Yet  essentially  that  is  the  path  of  imagination.  The 
drama  must  seek  to  make  us  recognize  the  thing  that, 
since  Greek  days,  we  had  forgotten — the  eternal  iden- 
tity of  you  and  me  with  the  vast  and  unmanageable 
forces  which  have  played  through  every  atom  of  life 
since  the  beginning.  Psychoanalysis,  tracing  back 
our  thoughts  and  actions  into  fundamental  impulses, 
has  done  more  than  any  one  factor  to  make  us  recover 
the  sense  of  our  unity  with  the  dumb,  mysterious  proc- 
esses of  nature.  We  know  now  through  science  what 
the  Greeks  and  all  primitive  peoples  knew  through  in- 
stinct. The  task  is  to  apply  it  to  art  and,  in  our  case, 
to  the  drama. 

It  may  be  applied  generally;  it  may  give  us  a  drama 
utterly  apart  from  anything  we  have  now,  nearer  per- 
haps to  the  Greek  than  to  any  other  in  spirit,  yet 
wholly  new  in  mechanism  and  method,  mysteriously 
beautiful  and  visionary.  The  new  sense  of  the  sig- 
nificance of  life,  which  we  have  won  both  through 
science  and  in  spite  of  science,  may  take  a  dramatic 
form  which  springs  straight  from  the  life  about  us  and 
requires  no  more  trappings  of  mysterious  beauty  than 

264 


THE  CONTENT  OF  THE  FUTURE 

does  Kaiser's  From  Morn  to  Midnight.  But  whatever 
the  form  of  the  play,  the  content  will  have  a  spiritual 
quality  that  gives  us  this  subliminal  sense  of  myste- 
rious age-old  processes  alive  in  us  today.  For  this 
quality  there  is  now  no  good  word.  "Mystic"  savors 
of  obscurantism;  "religious"  implies  a  god  to  be  wor- 
shiped; "psychic"  smacks  of  Sir  Oliver  Lodge.  The 
spiritual  values  of  which  I  write  are  the  spiritual  val- 
ues that  invade,  willynilly,  the  work  of  even  such  a 
propagandist-philosopher  as  Shaw  when  creative  evo- 
lution seizes  him  and  turns  him  revelator,  as  in  the 
vision  of  the  mayoress  in  Getting  Married,  which  be- 
gins: 

"When  you  loved  me  I  gave  you  the  whole  sun  and 
stars  to  play  with.  I  gave  you  eternity  in  a  single 
moment,  strength  of  the  mountains  in  one  clasp  of 
your  arms,  and  the  volume  of  all  the  seas  in  one  impulse 
of  our  souls.  A  moment  only,  but  was  it  not  enough? 
Were  you  not  paid  then  for  all  the  rest  of  your  struggle 
on  earth?  Must  I  mend  your  clothes  and  sweep  your 
floors  as  well?  Was  it  not  enough?  I  paid  the  price 
without  bargaining:  I  bore  the  children  without  flinch- 
ing: was  that  a  reason  for  heaping  fresh  burdens  upon 
me?  I  carried  the  child  in  my  arms:  must  I  carry  the 
father,  too?  When  I  opened  the  gates  of  paradise 
were  you  blind?  was  it  nothing  to  you?  When  all  the 
stars  sang  in  your  ears  and  all  the  winds  swept  you 
into  the  heart  of  heaven,  were  you  deaf?  were  you 

265 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

dull?  was  I  no  more  to  you  than  a  bone  to  a  dog?  Was 
it  not  enough?  We  spent  eternity  together;  and  you 
ask  me  for  a  little  lifetime  more.  We  possessed  all 
the  universe  together  and  you  ask  me  to  give  you  my 
scanty  wages  as  well.  I  have  given  you  the  greatest 
of  all  things  and  you  ask  me  to  give  you  the  little 
things.  I  gave  you  your  own  soul :  you  ask  me  for  my 
body  as  a  plaything.  Was  it  not  enough?  Was  it  not 
enough?" 


266 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  DRAMA  OF  INTIMACY  AND  OF  CROWDS. 

I  AM  aware  that  these  are  rather  rash  speculations. 
They  play  with  the  unaccountable  fire  of  crea- 
tion. At  best  they  are  projections  from  a  few 
facts,  examples  and  tendencies.  As  with  all  projec- 
tions a  slight  difference  in  the  estimate  of  the  facts  at 
the  base  may  end  in  a  wide  divergence  of  line.  And 
their  path  is  strewn  with  real  or  apparent  conflicts.  It 
is  the  purpose  of  this  chapter  to  examine  two  of  the 
most  glaring  conflicts  that  must  be  evident  in  all  that 
I  have  thus  far  written.  They  are  conflicts  that  must 
become  still  more  evident  as  we  turn  from  the  prov- 
ince of  the  playwright  as  an  interpreter  of  the  Zeitgeist 
of  the  new  theatre  and  try  to  see  how  his  work  will 
be  affected  by  the  great  divergence  between  the  types 
of  new  playhouses  which  are  today  beginning  to  take 
shape. 

Forgetting  for  the  moment  the  realistic  dramas 
which  will  continue  to  be  written,  we  find  the  play- 
wright facing  two  types  of  dramatic  expression  and 
two  theatres  in  which  these  types  may  take  their  places. 
There  may  be  the  drama  of  reality  lifted  to  a  plane 

267 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

of  sharp,  clear,  absolute  expression,  calling  upon  the 
imagination  both  in  creation  and  appreciation,  and 
there  may  be  the  drama  of  imagination  based  upon 
the  reality  of  spiritual  truth  but  lifted  to  levels  of 
sheer  beauty  which  the  interpretation  of  life  today 
does  not  permit.  For  theatres,  the  playwright  will 
find  the  intimate  playhouse  of  the  Vieux  Colombier 
and  all  the  forms  that  may  lie  between  it  and  our  own 
present  day  theatre,  and  he  will  find  the  gigantic  audi- 
toriums and  orchestras  of  such  houses  as  the  Grosses 
Schauspielhaus  in  Berlin.  The  playwright  will  thus 
face  the  conflict  of  Kaiser  vs.  Dunsany  and  the  conflict 
of  Copeau  vs.  Reinhardt.  It  is  a  cross-conflict  as  well, 
for  the  plays  of  Dunsany  and  Kaiser  may  be  as  intimate 
as  The  Golden  Doom  and  From  Morn  to  Midnight 
and  as  suited  to  Copeau's  playhouse,  while  Kaiser  has 
written  Europa  for  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  and 
The  Gods  of  the  Mountain  would  not  be  impossible 
there. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  the  course  of  the  new 
art  of  the  theatre  is  curiously  split  upon  the  rock  of 
the  little  theatre  and  the  circus — only  to  reunite,  I 
think,  later  on.  It  is  hard  at  first  to  see  any  relation 
between  the  intimacy  of  Max  Reinhardt's  Kammer- 
spielhaus,  seating  three  or  four  hundred,  and  the  spec- 
tacular vigor  of  his  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  with  its 
three  thousand.  Realism  finds  nowhere  such  perfect 
expression  as  in  a  playhouse  where  everyone  is  seated 

268 


A  DRAMA  OF  INTIMACY  AND  OF  CROWDS 

close  in  front  of  its  picture  frame,  while  it  is  funda- 
mentally impossible  in  such  a  playhouse  as  the  Grosses 
with  its  forestages  and  its  orchestra  floor  leading  play- 
ers and  playgoers  away  from  the  stage  above.  Yet  the 
affinity  of  the  little  theatre  for  realism  is  only  relative. 
Realism  requires  good  sight  lines,  good  acoustics  and 
particularly  an  audience  placed  directly  in  the  focus 
of  the  picture  drama;  but,  with  all  this,  realism  de- 
mands a  reticent  sort  of  intimacy.  To  make  the  play- 
goer and  player  feel  themselves  too  close  would  ruin 
the  illusion  of  a  separate,  complete  and  actual  world 
existing  on  the  stage.  The  directors  of  the  newer  the- 
atre first  utilized  little  theatres,  not  to  gain  the  illusion 
of  realism,  but  because  such  houses  were  economically 
adapted  to  the  risky  experiments  they  were  making; 
their  rentals  fitted  the  smaller  audiences  that  these 
men  expected  to  be  able  to  attract.  After  they  had 
begun  to  use  them,  they  found  that  these  small  audi- 
toriums also  enabled  them  to  bring  their  actors  into 
close  touch  with  the  audience — a  relationship  that  they 
soon  discovered  was  essential  to  the  work  of  escaping 
from  realism  and  representation.  They  were  next 
trying  to  increase  even  this  very  close  intimacy  by 
bringing  the  actors  down  upon  forestages  and  run- 
ways and  even  into  the  aisles.  The  intimacy  that  they 
created  in  the  little  theatres  was  the  intimacy  almost 
of  physical  contact. 
The  step  from  such  intimacy  to  the  huge  spaces  of 

269 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

the  circus  is  not  so  great  as  it  may  seem.  For  in  these 
circus  productions  you  will  never  find  the  audience 
placed  at  one  side  of  the  building  and  the  actors  upon 
a  stage  clear  across  at  the  other.  In  every  case, 
whether  it  is  Reinhardt  in  Berlin,  Gemier  in  Paris, 
or  MacKaye  in  New  York,  you  will  find  the  actor 
thrust  out  into  the  midst  of  the  spectators.  He  deserts 
the  stage  for  the  orchestra,  as  the  Greeks  did.  The 
audience  virtually  surrounds  him. 

Not  content  with  that,  he  invades  the  seats  of  the 
spectators  themselves,  and  in  the  trial  scene  in  Danton 
he  springs  up  beside  the  playgoer  and  hurls  invective 
at  the  court  until  the  audience  and  the  mob  in  the 
orchestra  are  wellnigh  fused  into  one.  If  we  consider 
the  matter  more  on  a  mathematical  basis  of  distance 
a  comparison  of  the  intimacy  of  a  small  theatre  with 
its  deep  picture-frame  stage  and  of  a  large  theatre 
with  its  apron  or  orchestra  for  stage,  shows  this  in- 
teresting result:  Keep  the  farthest  spectators  just  as 
close  to  the  actor  on  the  centre  of  the  apron  as  he 
would  be  to  the  actor  on  the  centre  of  the  ordinary 
stage  and  you  still  increase  the  seating  capacity  of 
your  auditorium  three  times  without  giving  up  any 
intimacy  as  shown  in  the  drawing  on  the  page  opposite. 

Superficially  the  difference  both  in  intimacy  and  in 
kind  of  emotion  between  a  little  theatre  and  a  circus 
seems  great.  Actually,  when  an  artist  of  the  new  the- 
atre employs  both  houses,  the  intimacy  is  almost  iden- 

270 


A  DRAMA  OF  INTIMACY  AND  OF  CROWDS 

tical — the  intimacy  of  the  actor's  actuality — while  the 
emotional  intensity  of  the  huge  audience  is  bound  to 
compensate  for  the  realistic  effects  which  the  small 
house  alone  makes  possible  and  which  at  one  point 
and  another  will  always  be  necessary  to  achieve  cer- 
tain ends.     The  tendency  of   Fuchs,   Littmann,   and 


THE  BOX-SETTING  VS.  THE  FORESTAGE 
At  the  left  is  the  normal  modern  theatre,  with  the  actor  in  the  centre  of 
a  box-like  stage.  If  the  stage  were  to  be  thrust  forward,  as  in  the  Greek 
orchestra,  the  Elizabethan  playhouse,  or  the  Reinhardt  circus,  the  capacity 
could  be  trebled  while  every  spectator  would  remain  as  close  to  the  actor 
as  before. 

Copeau,  though  they  put  their  forestages  into  theatres 
seating  no  more  than  a  thousand  people,  is  still  related 
to  the  purpose  of  Reinhardt  in  his  circus-theatre. 
They  are  all  striving  for  theatrical  intimacy,  even 
though  one  of  them  leaps  beyond  it  to  the  violence  of 
mob-emotion  as  well.  The  theatre  of  tomorrow  may  be 
both  the  theatre  where  the  mob  speaks  in  great  gestures 
and  the  theatre  where  a  few  draw  closer  to  a  spirit. 

271 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

In  the  little  theatres,  which  began  with  the  realistic 
Theatre  Libre  and  have  not  ended  with  Copeau's 
Vieux  Colombier,  two  conflicts  raged  which  have 
their  importance  for  the  far  future.  It  was  at  first 
the  conflict  of  the  realistic  and  the  aesthetic,  the  con- 
flict of  Brieux  and  Maeterlinck.  Now  it  has  become 
the  conflict  of  the  expressionistic  and  the  aesthetic,  the 
conflict  of  Kaiser  and  Dunsany.  The  first  reaction 
against  realism  took  the  form  of  an  attempt  to  escape 
from  actuality  into  the  mysteries  and  the  shelter  of 
never-never-land.  And  in  all  the  record  of  the  new 
art  of  the  theatre — filled  as  it  is  with  vigorous  belief 
in  the  reality  of  life  and  the  truth  of  the  spirit — there 
has  lurked  a  longing  to  escape  entirely  from  the  prob- 
lems of  the  human  soul  into  a  sort  of  aesthetic  Nirvana. 

There  is  charm  in  this  search  for  pure  beauty,  but  in 
the  air  of  small  playhouses  it  is  apt  to  be  an  oppressive 
charm.  It  lacks  vigor.  In  the  future  I  see  the  smaller 
theatre  turning  more  to  such  work  as  Kaiser's  From 
Morn  to  Midnight,  to  attempts  to  capture  larger  values 
among  the  things  of  our  ordinary  life;  I  see  the  aes- 
theticism  of  Dunsany  and  the  beauty  and  power  of 
von  Hofmannsthahl  flung  out  into  the  orchestra  of  the 
circus-theatre.  There  it  can  never  remain  an  arid 
thing.  It  must  be  caught  up  by  the  grandeur  of  space 
and  of  the  multitude  into  larger  and  more  eternal  val- 
ues. Only  one  thing  beside  beauty  can  invade  the  mob- 
theatre  and  live.    That  is  the  story  of  the  mob  itself. 

272 


A  DRAMA  OF  INTIMACY  AND  OF  CROWDS 

We  may  look  for  Rolland  and  his  Danton  at  the  heart 
of  the  theatre  of  the  five  thousand.  But  beauty  will 
always  remain  the  fuel  for  the  flame  of  this  theatre 
of  humanity. 

The  theatre  of  the  circus  opens  up  possibilities  for 
the  playwright  that  seem  singularly  broad  and  singu- 
larly pregnant  with  the  spirit  of  the  age.  Such  a  the- 
atre enables  him  to  write  in  terms  of  movement  as 
well  as  of  words,  to  dramatize  life  upon  varying  levels 
of  consciousness  and  of  actuality,  to  reach  ever  closer 
to  the  life-giving  vigor  of  vast  audiences,  to  arouse  in 
such  mighty  gatherings  emotions  which  sweep  in  one 
gigantic  swell  to  the  players  and  are  thrown  back  in 
still  more  majestic  power  to  the  audience  again.  In 
such  a  playhouse  is  born  a  sense  of  drama  which  trans- 
cends individual  action.  The  "group-being"  that 
Percy  MacKaye  and  Robert  Edmond  Jones  created 
in  The  Will  of  Song  becomes  an  actuality.  This  con- 
ception has  found  brilliant  expression  in  these  words 
of  Jones: 

"The  new  poet  of  the  theatre,  looking  ever  deeper 
and  deeper  into  his  own  heart,  envisaging  the  outward 
world  of  images  more  and  more  remotely,  may  come 
eventually  to  a  kind  of  bird's-eye  view  of  life,  the  view 
of  Thomas  Hardy  in  The  Dynasts,  a  view  already 
made  familiar  to  the  public  by  the  aeroplane  and  the 
motion  picture.  He  may  see  in  time,  not  only  how 
people  unconsciously  reveal  their  inmost  secret  selves 

273 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

to  the  world  in  every  attitude  and  gesture  and  intona- 
tion, but  how  they  unconsciously  group  and  regroup 
themselves  into  crowds  and  communities  under  the 
guidance  of  an  ever-shifting,  invisible  plan.  He  may 
come  to  understand  at  last,  in  an  ecstasy  of  clear  seeing, 
that  the  radiant  heroic  beings  of  which  he  has  dreamed 
are  not  supermen,  not  men  at  all,  not  even  Ubermarion- 
ettes,  but  groups  of  men — group-beings — and  that  the 
hero  of  his  drama  is  in  truth  the  people.  He  will 
study  the  movements  of  crowds  and  the  formation  of 
crystals,  and  the  shifting  patterns  in  a  kaleidoscope, 
and  he  will  begin  to  understand  also  how  ideas  precipi- 
tate crystals  of  men  around  leaders  of  thought  and 
emotion.  He  will  perceive  that  these  kaleidoscopic, 
crystalline  group-beings — forever  shaping  and  reshap- 
ing themselves  under  moving  beams  of  light  that  shine 
brightly  upon  them  for  an  instant  and  pass — live  out 
an  organic  life  of  their  own  that  dominates  and  trans- 
cends the  daily  life  of  men  and  women  (who  are  in- 
deed but  the  corpuscles  that  flow  in  their  blood),  not 
condescending  to  human  outline  or  human  speech  but 
expressing  themselves  in  a  multiple  unity  of  form  and 
utterance  which  by  a  miracle  he  is  permitted  to  com- 
prehend, to  praise,  to  summon  and  to  command." 

The  conception  of  groups  of  actors  as  replacing  in- 
dividuals is  obviously  related  to  the  impersonal  chorus 
of  Greek  tragedy.  It  was  a  conception  first  formu- 
lated in  Jones's  scheme  of  some  years  ago  for  a  pro- 

274 


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ft 


A  DRAMA  OF  INTIMACY  AND  QF  CROWDS 

duction  of  Shelley's  Cenci  upon  a  platform,  like  a 
prize-ring  in  the  midst  of  an  audience,  with  the  central 
figures  of  the  drama  still  further  centered  within  a 
moving  and  posing  chorus  which  should  act  as  sym- 
bolic setting  for  the  action  confined  within  its  living 
walls.  These  are  group-beings  only  half  animate. 
They  contribute  to  the  drama  but  they  have  not  yet 
become  the  drama  itself. 

In  the  mask  and  the  marionette — the  inanimate 
given  life — there  lies  an  almost  equal  fascination  for 
the  worker  in  the  theatre  of  tomorrow.  In  the  work 
of  the  playwright  who  writes  for  the  circus-theatre 
there  will  doubtless  be  a  place  for  these  venerable  and 
not  unholy  devices.  Masks  may  play  their  part,  and, 
in  a  more  precious  way,  the  marionettes.  Both  in- 
volve a  certain  strange  and  enthralling  sense  of  the 
mystic  quality  of  the  theatre,  of  art  commanding  life 
and  of  life  springing  from  art.  They  take  a  more 
natural  place  in  these  theatres  where  realistic  illusion 
is  of  necessity  banned.  One  can  conceive  of  a  drama 
of  group-beings  in  which  great  individuals,  around 
whom  these  groups  coalesce,  could  be  fitly  presented 
only  under  the  impersonal  and  eternal  aspect  of  the 
mask;  or,  again,  a  drama  in  which  the  foil  to  the 
mob  is  the  marionette  who  is  thought  to  give  it  utter- 
ance. One  can  conceive  as  easily  the  mask  and  the 
marionette  finding  an  inevitable  use  in  intimate  sym- 
bolic drama  or  in  the  expression  of  the  unconscious. 

275 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Such  conceptions  carry  us  far  across  tomorrow. 
For  they  cannot  become  facts  until  such  a  theatre  as 
the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  is  built  in  New  York,  and 
such  a  theatre  will  not  be  built  and  should  not  be 
built  until  we  have  evidence  that  America  has  a  direc- 
tor who  can  rise  to  its  opportunities.  Productions  of 
this  sort  might,  of  course,  take  shape  in  open-air  the- 
atres as  festival  performances  undertaken  only  on  spe- 
cial occasions.  But  here  enter  disadvantages  and 
delays.  In  spite  of  much  enthusiasm  spent  on  the 
open-air  theatre  I  cannot  see  it  as  our  future  play- 
house. By  daylight  the  modern  and  often  ugly  hats 
and  gowns  and  clothes  of  the  audience  are  unbearably 
disillusioning.  By  night — except  for  the  distracting 
beauties  of  the  changing  sky — I  cannot  see  that  the 
outdoor  theatre  achieves  anything  that  cannot  be  better 
achieved  indoors,  with  lighting  under  more  exact  con- 
trol, and  the  physical  conditions  of  stage  and  orchestra 
so  much  more  flexible  and  effective.  As  for  the  fes- 
tival— is  it  genuinely  and  sincerely  possible  until  the 
day  when  some  fundamental  change  in  our  concep- 
tions of  life  brings  back  something  approaching  the 
religious  devotion  that  surrounded  Greek  drama? 


276 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  THEATRE  OF  DEMOCRACY. 

IN  the  main  I  have  tried  to  write  of  the  coming 
theatre  and  its  drama  as  if  society  were  to  go  on 
with  much  the  same  class  divisions,  class  interests 
and  class  cultures  as  exist  today.  My  conclusions  have 
rested  on  the  implied  basis  of  our  leisure-class  thea- 
tre. This  seems  something  less  than  sound,  complete 
or  safe.  Revolution,  economic  and  political,  is  either 
accomplished  or  imminent  in  much  of  Europe;  and 
though  it  may  be  years  before  the  bankruptcy  of  cap- 
italism cuts  across  the  imperial  path  of  America,  the 
upsetting  of  all  our  present  aesthetic  and  moral  values 
is  something  to  be  considered  very  seriously  in  any 
volume  that  tries  to  speak  of  the  theatre  of  tomorrow. 
We  cannot  ignore  the  possibility  that  the  whole  aris- 
tocratic basis  may  be  cut  from  under  our  present  play- 
house. 

To  the  majority  of  American  theatregoers  this  will 
sound  rather  extravagant.  In  the  days  when  the  So- 
cialist party  foreswears  Moscow,  while  it  inveighs 
against  the  blackest  reaction  that  America  has  ever 
known,  revolution  seems  more  chimerical  than  ever; 
yet  revolution  is  never  so  far  away,  some  one  has  said, 

277 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

as  the  day  before  it  happens.  As  for  the  aristocratic 
basis  of  our  theatre,  you  do  not  have  to  be  familiar 
with  the  manners  and  mentality  of  our  most  successful 
theatrical  managers  to  believe  the  superstition  that  the 
theatre  is  a  democratic  art. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  theatre  is  not  necessarily  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  Of  course  it  is  very  far  from  an 
exclusive  art.  It  cannot  be  made  or  enjoyed  by 
individuals.  It  is  cooperative  in  production  and  it 
requires  an  audience  of  some  hundreds  of  thousands. 
In  its  greatest  periods  it  has  been  utterly  democratic, 
and  it  succeeds  only  when  it  is  perfect  enough  to  induce 
a  common  reaction  among  its  spectators,  to  forge  a 
common  soul.  Yet  the  groups  with  which  the  theatre 
must  work  may  be  relatively  small  groups,  groups  un- 
representative of  the  body  of  a  nation.  A  play  may  be 
a  successful  play,  artistically  and  financially,  and  yet 
reach  only  fifty  thousand  or  a  hundred  thousand  New 
Yorkers,  while  a  thousand  times  this  audience,  scat- 
tered across  the  continent,  know  nothing  of  it.  The 
most  that  the  theatre  does  today  is  to  reach  the  middle 
classes.  Even  if  it  reached  all  the  people  of  our  na- 
tion I  doubt  whether  it  would  yet  be  a  democratic 
art;  for  democracy  is  a  thing  of  the  spirit  and,  for  us, 
still  unborn.  The  democratic  method  in  government  is 
one  thing,  and  a  very  deceptive  thing;  Democracy  is 
something  else,  something  of  the  future.  When  it 
comes  it  will  make  over  the  theatre,  be  sure  of  that. 

278 


THE  THEATRE  OF  DEMOCRACY 

And  it  will  give  it  that  deep  spiritual  sincerity,  that 
religious  content,  in  which  great  drama  waxes. 

Suppose  we  do  have  revolution.  Suppose  it  is  gen- 
uine spiritual  revolution,  proletarian  and  complete, 
not  the  abortive  and  constrained,  though  glorious,  up- 
heaval of  the  French  Revolution.  What  will  its  theatre 
be?  How  far  will  this  theatre  of  the  day  after  tomor- 
row differ  from  that  which  I  have  tried  to  foresee  and 
describe? 

Essentially,  I  imagine,  it  will  include  many  of  the 
elements  which  I  have  outlined,  and  elaborate  some 
still  further — the  group-being,  for  example.  Of  the 
technical  qualities  which  I  see  already  in  evidence 
about  us,  most  are  to  be  found  in  the  great  democratic 
theatres  of  Greece,  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  of  Eliza- 
bethan England.  They  go  back  of  realism  to  a  theatre 
that  had  no  earthly  conception  of  being  representa- 
tional, to  a  theatre  where  actors,  costumes,  and  what 
there  was  of  setting,  were  relatively  real  things  in 
themselves,  presenting  emotion  directly  to  their  audi- 
ences, by  either  naive  or  conventional  devices,  and 
never  aiming  to  represent  men  and  women  and  things 
as  actually  existing  apart  from  the  audience. 

Somewhat  similarly  the  spiritual  elements  of  the 
new  drama  go  back  to  the  emotional  roots  of  instinctive 
racial  drama  even  while  they  build  on  to  conscious 
study  and  interpretation  of  instinct  and  intuition  and 
in  general  the  whole  vast  field  of  the  unconscious  mind 

279 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

of  man.  The  content  of  the  drama  of  tomorrow,  cut 
off  from  realism,  is  clearly  united  with  the  content  of 
primitive  and  democratic  drama  even  while  it  goes 
ahead  to  a  range  of  mental  exploration  that  must  be 
of  gathering  importance  to  a  broadly  democratic 
culture. 

Yet  before  we  say  that  this  theatre  of  tomorrow  will 
also  be  the  theatre  of  democracy  we  must  face  the  fact 
that  the  largest  part  of  the  work  toward  this  theatre 
during  the  past  twenty-five  years  has  been  done  in  play- 
houses serving  a  most  limited  public.  The  new  stage- 
craft and  the  imaginative  play  have  found  their  first 
adherents  among  the  aristocracy  of  intellect  and  breed- 
ing, perhaps  the  most  snobbish  aristocracy  that  we  have 
yet  developed.  The  relation  of  this  class  to  the  real- 
istic play  is  as  clear  and  as  simple  as  the  relation  of 
the  future  democracy  is  likely  to  be  to  the  drama  of 
social  photography. 

When  some  one  writes  the  dramatic  history  of  the 
past  seventy-five  years — Realism;  Its  Cause  and  Cure 
— he  will  find,  I  think,  one  reason  for  its  coming  and 
two  for  its  going,  bound  up  together  in  the  single  com- 
plex of  industrial  capitalism.  Realism  was  the  nat- 
ural product  of  slavery  to  machines.  It  was  both  an 
evidence  of  how  our  minds  were  cramped  by  the  hid- 
eous conditions  of  life  and  of  how  desperately  they 
sought  for  some  end  to  their  slavery.  We  could  see 
no  farther  than  our  miseries,  but  at  least  we  would  seek 

280 


THE  THEATRE  OF  DEMOCRACY 

a  cure.  Accordingly  we  began  a  photographic  study 
of  capitalistic  society,  mingled  with  propagandist  ef- 
forts to  end  its  more  flaming  pieces  of  injustice. 

The  playgoer  tired  of  realism  for  two  reasons,  or 
rather  some  tired  of  it  for  one  reason  and  some  for 
another.  Even  before  the  ghastly  and  gigantic  folly 
of  the  war,  there  were  those  who  were  willing  to  give 
the  whole  thing  up  as  a  bad  job  and  seek  peace  or  dis- 
traction in  an  art  divorced  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
surface  of  life  about  them.  The  desperate  disillusion- 
ment of  the  war  multiplied  this  audience  tenfold  and 
brought  to  it  also  men  and  women  seeking  new  excite- 
ments and  sensations  as  great  as  those  they  had  passed 
through.  This  made  a  body  of  playgoers  largely 
lacking  in  faith  and  devotion,  but  at  least  freed  from 
the  obsessions  of  realism.  In  addition  to  these,  who 
were  ready  for  a  message  of  beauty,  imagination,  even 
austerity  and  truth,  there  was  a  more  active  group  who 
had  sought  deliberately  for  something  beyond  or  apart 
from  the  literalness  of  life.  These  men  and  women 
were  a  product  of  industrialism.  They  were  members 
of  a  leisure  class  which  it  had  created,  a  leisure  class 
freed  both  from  the  absorption  of  money-getting  and 
from  the  greater  absorption  of  the  search  for  the  means 
of  escaping  the  evils  of  money-getting.  It  was  this 
class  that  supplied  the  sinews  of  the  new  art  of  the 
theatre. 

When,  and  if,  revolution  comes,  I  cannot  see  how 

281 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

realism   can    avoid    losing   its    remaining   adherents. 
Revolution  will  bring  no  end  to  human  problems,  but 
the  problems  are  likely  to  be  more  spiritual  than  phys- 
ical.   There  will  certainly  be  less  room  for  the  propa- 
gandist, the  muckraker,  the  social  healer.     We  shall 
still  want  to  study  the  life  of  man,  for  that  is  the  whole 
source  of  drama.     But  this  life  will  be  far  less  a  matter 
of  surface  relationships  than  it  is  today.     The  future 
Gorky,  for  example,  will  not  have  to  dig  in  the  muck 
of  the  lower  depths  to  find  the  soul  of  truth  in  mankind. 
Yet — revolution  or  no  revolution — the  great  theatre 
should  go  on.     It  may,  of  course,  suffer  corruption. 
It  may  become  the  Roman  Coliseum  of  an  imperialism 
that  debases  man  even  while  it  nourishes  him.     In 
great  cities,  like  New  York,  the  theatre  may  continue 
as  it  promises  to  develop — a  beautiful  and  effective  in- 
stitution   permanently    and    efficiently   organized    on 
commercial  and  quasi-educational  lines — while  at  the 
same  time,  in  St.  Louis  as  well  as  New  York,  there  will 
gradually  spring  up  festival  theatres  in  which  the  fin- 
est creative  spirit  of  the  community,  exemplified  in 
playwrights,  artists  and  actors,  will  labor.     Under  in- 
dustrial imperialism  or  under  revolutionary  democ- 
racy  such   festival   theatres,   sheltered    in   exposition 
buildings  or  in  natural  valleys,  may  achieve  as  clear 
an  expression  of  the  spirit  of  democracy  as  they  ever 
could  under  revolution.     The  festival  theatre  of  the 
group-being,  of  the  people  made  visible  and  articulate, 

282 


THE  THEATRE  OF  DEMOCRACY 

may  come  in  answer  to  revolution  and  as  part  of  it. 
It  may  come  as  the  expression  of  a  democracy  thwarted 
in  outward  form.  Or  it  may  come  as  the  expression 
of  a  democracy  which  can  never  exist  under  the  ma- 
chinery of  government  and  commerce,  but  which  will 
flame  out  through  communal  art. 

The  business  of  writing  of  the  theatre  of  tomorrow 
seems  presumptuous,  risky  and  absurd  enough  as  I 
look  at  it  in  retrospect.  To  write  of  the  theatre  of  rev- 
olution and  of  life  made  whole,  brings  me  up  sharp 
against  the  sense  of  the  dangers  of  apocalyptic  fervors. 
Yet  it  is  impossible  to  deny  a  faith  in  the  City  of  God. 
There  were  once,  you  know,  the  Greeks. 


283 


A  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 

FOLLOWING  the  excellent  fashion  set  by 
Sheldon  Cheney  in  his  Art  Theatre,  I  am  offer- 
ing a  discursive  and  selected  bibliography  rather 
than  as  complete  a  list  as  possible  of  all  the  available 
material  on  the  subject  covered  by  The  Theatre  of 
Tomorrow.  An  unusually  complete  bibliography  of 
the  art  of  the  theatre  up  to  1916 — the  only  one  of  which 
I  have  any  knowledge — will  be  found  in  Community 
Drama  and  Pageantry  ( 1916)  by  Mary  Porter  Beegle 
and  Jack  Crawford.  Here  I  shall  give  only  the  names 
of  volumes  which  have  been  of  direct  service  in  the 
writing  of  this  book  and  from  which  more  can  be 
gained  by  the  interested  reader  than  I  could  include 
within  its  scope. 

Two  special  bibliographical  works  have  proved  of 
great  aid,  both  by  W.  B.  Gamble,  head  of  the  tech- 
nology division  of  the  New  York  Public  Library. 
One,  Stage  Scenery  ( 1917)  is  an  index  of  2,125  items 
dealing  with  illustrations  of  stage  designs,  settings  and 
costumes  that  have  appeared  since  1900  in  books  and 
magazines  on  file  at  the  New  York  Public  Library. 
The  other,  The  Development  of  Scenic  Art  and  Stage 

285 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Machinery  (1920),  lists  almost  as  many  references  to 
books  and  articles  dealing  with  many  phases  of  pro- 
duction. 

At  the  head  of  the  general  works  on  the  new  move- 
ment in  the  theatre  must  be  placed  Hiram  Kelly  Mod- 
erwell's  pioneer  volume,  The  Theatre  of  Today 
(1914),  to  which  my  own  book  is  frankly  a  sequel. 
Huntley  Carter's  New  Spirit  in  Drama  and  Art  (191 2) 
is  more  discursive  and  less  well-organized,  but  contains 
much  information  of  value.  Sheldon  Cheney's  two 
volumes,  The  New  Movement  in  the  Theatre  (1914) 
and  The  Art  Theatre  (1917),  convey  much  excellent 
theory  as  well  as  fact;  the  latter  contains  material  on  the 
organization  of  the  sort  of  repertory  theatre  which  is 
essential  to  the  complete  realization  of  the  ideas  on 
modern  production  to  be  found  in  all  these  books. 
Cheney's  Open  Air  Theatre  supplies  full  information 
on  a  subject  of  which  I  have  found  it  impossible  to  say 
much.  L'Art  theatral  moderne  (1910),  by  Jacques 
Rouche,  founder  of  the  Theatre  des  Arts  and  now 
director  of  the  Paris  Opera,  contains,  in  addition  to 
studies  of  the  most  important  figures  and  theories  of  the 
new  movement,  valuable  reproductions  in  color  of  the 
sketches  for  The  Blue  Bird  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre, 
placed  in  comparison  with  the  English  production. 

The  five  volumes  of  The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine 
(1917-21)  are  a  source-book  of  more  material  upon 

286 


A  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 

various  aspects  of  the  subject  in  hand  than  is  to  be 
found  collected  elsewhere.  The  file  of  Theatre-Craft, 
an  English  periodical,  contains  many  illustrations  of 
English  work.  Special  topics  have  brought  for- 
ward many  books  of  interest  and  help.  On  Max 
Reinhardt,  for  example,  there  are  the  following:  The 
Theatre  of  Max  Reinhardt  (1914),  by  Huntley  Car- 
ter; Max  Reinhardt  (1910),  by  Siegfried  Jacobsohn; 
Max  Reinhardt  ( 1915) ,  by  Heinz  Herald;  and  Rein- 
hardt und  Seine  B'uhne  (1920),  by  Heinz  Herald  and 
Ernst  Stern,  a  particularly  interesting  volume  because 
of  its  many  colored  illustrations.  The  Russian  theatre, 
and  particularly  the  theories  of  Stanislavsky,  Meyer- 
hold  and  YevreynofF,  may  be  glimpsed  in  The  Russian 
Theatre  under  the  Revolution  (1920),  Oliver  M.  Say- 
ler's  excellent  and  suggestive  report,  and  in  The  Path 
of  the  Modern  Russian  Stage  (191 8)  by  Alexander 
Bakshy. 

Of  the  theorists  and  artist-critics  of  the  newer  thea- 
tre, the  most  important  for  the  English  reader  is,  of 
course,  Gordon  Craig,  whose  three  books,  On  the  Art 
of  the  Theatre  (191 1),  Towards  a  New  Theatre 
(1913)  and  The  Theatre — Advancing  ( 1919)  and 
whose  magazine,  The  Mask,  stand  out  above  all  other 
contributions  on  the  subject.  Adolphe  Appia's  Die 
Musik  und  die  Inscenierung  (1899)  1S  most  difficult 
reading  in  the  original  and  has  not,  unfortunately, 
been  translated.     Among  other  volumes  of  theory  in 

287 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

German  must  be  mentioned  Georg  Fuchs's  Die  Revo- 
lution des  Theaters  (1909)  and  Carl  Hagemann's 
Moderne  Buhnenkunst  (1916-18). 

In  the  field  of  historical  studies  of  the  physical  the- 
atre, a  field  poorly  covered  in  English,  I  have  found 
assistance  in  Karl  Mantzius's  History  of  Theatrical 
Art  in  Ancient  and  Modern  Times  (1903-09)  ;  Martin 
Hammitzsch's  Der  Moderne  Theaterbau  (1906)  ;  Ed- 
ward Moritz's  Das  Antike  Theater  und  die  Modernen 
Reformbestrebingen  in  Theaterbau  (1910)  a  particu- 
larly useful  volume;  the  monographs  on  his  various 
theatres  written  by  Max  Littmann;  the  third  chapter 
of  Brander  Matthews'  A  Study  of  the  Drama  (1910)  ; 
Ashley  H.  Thorndike's  Shakespeare's  Theatre  ( 1916)  ; 
William  John  Lawrence's  Elizabethan  Playhouse  and 
Other  Studies  (1912-13);  Winifred  Smith's  Corn- 
media  dell'  Arte  (1912);  A.  Haigh's  Attic  Theatre 
(1907)  ;  E.  R.  Fiechter's  Die  Baugeschichtliche  Ent- 
wicklung  des  Antiken  Theaters  (1914);  Architekt 
Ferdinand  Fellner  und  seine  Bedeutung  fur  den  mod- 
ernen Theaterbau  (1910)  ;  Irving  Pichel's  On  Build- 
ing a  Theatre  (1920)  ;  A.  Streit's  Das  Theater  (1903)  ; 
E.  O.  Sachs's  Modern  Opera  Houses  and  Theatres 
(1896-98)  ;  R.  C.  Flickinger's  Greek  Theatre  and  Its 
Drama  (191 8)  ;  and  an  unpublished  monograph,  The 
Theatre  of  Tradition,  by  A.  E.  Krows,  whose  Play 
Production  in  America  ( 1916)  furnishes  information 
on  the  technical  progress  of  our  stage. 

288 


A  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 

Among  books  on  miscellaneous  topics  I  must  list 
The  Art  of  the  Vieux  Colombier  (1918),  by  Waldo 
Frank;  issues  of  Wasmuth's  Monatshefte  fur  Bau- 
kunst,  descriptive  of  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus 
(Jahrgang  V,  Heft  1/2)  and  of  the  Salzburg  Festspiel- 
haus  (Jahrgang  V,  Heft  9/10)  ;  Decoration  in  the 
Theatre  (1919)  by  Albert  Rutherston,  which  is  No.  2 
of  Vol.  I  of  The  Monthly  Chapbook;  Uber  B'uhne 
und  Bildende  Kunst  (191 2),  by  Max  Kruger;  Das 
Grosse  Schauspielhaus  (1920);  the  London  Stage 
Year  Book  (1908-21),  a  treasury  of  many  interesting 
reproductions  of  scenes  from  German  productions  and 
of  sketches;  the  files  of  Le  Go-madia  Illustre,  for  re- 
productions in  color  of  work  of  the  Russian  and 
French  stage  artists. 

In  addition  to  credit  given  elsewhere  for  plates  or 
photographs  loaned  for  reproduction,  I  wish  to  ac- 
knowledge the  use  of  two  charming  drawings  by  Fau- 
connet  of  an  Elizabethan  theatre  and  of  the  Vieux 
Colombier's  stage  in  New  York,  reproduced  from 
Album  du  Vieux  Colombier;  the  silhouette  of  Rein- 
hardt  at  rehearsal  from  Das  Loch  im  Vorhang,  by 
Lotti  Reiniger;  drawings  made  especially  for  this 
book  by  Robert  Edmond  Jones,  Norman-Bel  Geddes, 
and  Sheldon  K.  Viele;  the  generous  photographic  as- 
sistance of  Francis  Bruguiere;  the  loan  by  Oliver  M. 
Sayler   of   the    photographs   of    the   soldiers    in    the 

289 


THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW 

Kamerny  production  of  Salome  and  of  the  Appia  set- 
ting for  L'Annonce  faite  a  Marie  at  Hellerau;  and 
the  critical  advice  and  correction  of  manuscript  and 
proof  by  Robert  E.  Jones,  Oliver  M.  Sayler,  Sheldon 
Cheney,  Horace  Liveright,  Irving  Pichel  and  my  wife. 


290 


INDEX 


Acts  and  Galatea,  89. 
Adams,  Maude,  52. 
Adaptable  Proscenium,  189. 
Adelphia   Theatre    (Liverpool), 

H3. 

Adrea  (Belasco),  50. 
j^Eschylus,  27,  218,  228. 
Akins,  Zoe,  244. 
Alction  group,  255. 
Album  du  Vieux  Colombier,  289. 
Ames,  Winthrop,  38,  52. 
Anatol,  230. 
Andree,  Harald,  118. 
Androcles  and  the  Lion  (Barker- 

Rutherston),  71,  138. 
Anisfeld,  Boris,  69,  72. 
Anne  Boleyn,  179. 
Annonce  faite  a.  Marie,  U  (Ap- 

P'a),  83,   191,  opp.   192,  290. 
Antigone,  256. 
Antike  Theater,  Das,  288. 
Antoine,  18. 
Appia,  Adolphe,  14,  16,  24,  29, 

75,  77-86,  opp.  82  &  84,  102, 

no,  115,  135,  159,  190,  191, 

opp.  192,  220,  287. 
Apres-midi  d'un  faune,  L',  255. 
Apron,  see  forestage. 
Architekt      Ferdinand     Fellner, 

288. 
Aristophanes,  198. 
Aristotle,  231. 
Ars  System,  49,  60-62. 
Art  of  the  Theatre,  The,  87. 

29 


Art  of  the  Vieux  Colombier, 
The,  156,  289. 

Art  thedtral  moderne,  U ,  286. 

Art  Theatre,  The,  129,  285,  286. 

Artist,  The,  249. 

Artists'  Masque  (Sayen-Young), 
117. 

Arts  and  Crafts  Theatre  (De- 
troit), 44,  129,  130. 

Asphalei'a  System,  28. 

At  8.45,  230. 

Attic  Theatre,  The,  288. 

Augier,  225. 

Awakening  of  Spring,  The,  233. 

Bad  Man,  The,  234. 

Bakst,  Leon,  66,  opp.  66,  69,  70, 
7i,  72,  73,  74,  79,  no,  118. 

Bakshy,  Alex.,  147,  149,  184, 
287. 

Ballets  Russes,  69,  73,  75,  114, 
118,  121. 

Barker,  Granville,  26,  52,   136. 

Barnsdall,  Aline,  202. 

Barriere,  225. 

Barrymore,  John,  132. 

Bat,  The,  231. 

Baugeschicktliche  Entivicklung 
des  Antiken  Theaters,  Die,  288. 

Beamish,  R.  J.,  117. 

Becque,  225. 

Beechwood  Theatre  (Scarbo- 
rough, N.  Y.),  57. 

Beegle,  Mary  Porter,  285. 


INDEX 


Behind  a  Watteau  Picture,  244. 
Belasco,  David,  48,  5051,  52,  67, 

69,  102. 
Belasco  Theatre    (New   York), 

48,  51,  177. 
Bennett,  Arnold,  230,  232. 
Benois,  Alexander  Nikolaievitch, 

69,  opp.  1 10. 
Bergman,  Robert,   131, 
Bethlehem    (Craig),  89. 
Beyond  the  Horizon,  224. 
Biggers,  Earl  Derr,  230. 
Bishop,  Harry,  38. 
Bit  0'  Love,  A,  232. 
Bitzer,  180. 
Blackall,   186. 
Blatter  des  Deutschen  Theaters, 

Die,  193. 
Blue    Bird,    The    (Stanislavsky- 

Yegoroff),  26,  70,  opp.  70,  73, 

286. 
Blythelea  Theatre   (Orange,  N. 

J.),  58. 
Bonds  of  Interest,   The    (N.  Y. 

Theatre    Guild-Peters),    141, 

opp.  144.  _ 
Booth,  Edwin,  31. 
Booth  Stage,  168. 
Boris  Godunoff  (Golovin),  opp. 

68,  69,  73- 
Boston   Opera   House,   63,    131, 

140. 
Bragdon,  Claude,  131. 
Brahm,  Otto,  17,  67,  69. 
Brandt,  Fritz,  36. 
Brice,  Fanny,  152,  154. 
Brieux,  Eugene,  225,  272. 
Broken  Wing,  The,  234. 
Browne,  Maurice,  19,  115,  116, 

154,  190. 
Bruguiere,  F.,  289. 
Burbage,  170,  174. 


Cabinet    of   Dr.    Caligari,    The, 

119,  opp.  120. 
C&sar   and    Cleopatra    (Craig), 

96,  105. 
Caliban  ( MacKaye-Urban),  201. 
Cannan,  Gilbert,  245. 
Carroll's   Theatre,    Earl    (New 

York),  58. 
Carter,       Huntly,       193,       286, 

287. 
Cenci,  The,  2 7 5. 
Cheney,  Sheldon,  129,  285,  286, 

290. 
Chevalier,  Albert,  152. 
Chicago  Opera  Co.,  72,  137. 
Circus      Productions,      191-192, 

268-273,     275;     see     Grosses 

Schauspielhaus  and  Theatre  of 

the  Five  Thousand. 
Clair  de  Lune,  234. 
Claudel,  Paul,  83,  191. 
Claviluse,   122. 
Cloister,    The    (N.   Y.   Theatre 

Guild-Viele),  43,  44,  131. 
Cohan,  George  M.,  230. 
Cohan  &  Harris,  231. 
Color  Organ,  122. 
Commedia    dell'    arte,     1 70- 1 72, 

252. 
Commedia  dell'  arte,  288. 
Community     Drama    and    Pag- 
eantry, 285. 
Comcedia  Illustre,  Le,  289. 
Comrades,  225. 
Copeau,  Jacques,  19,  84,  155-159, 

201,   208-210,  opp.  208,  268, 

271,  272. 
Corneille,  174,  229,  238. 
Corra,  Bruno,  250. 
Court    Masque    (Italian),    173; 

(Tudor),  172,  175. 
Covent  Garden  (London),  28. 


292 


INDEX 


Craig,  Gordon,  14,  16,  17,  24, 
29,  46,  70,  75,  77.  78,  79,  80, 
86,  87-101,  opp.  98,  102,  105, 
no,  127,  128,  opp.  128,  129, 
135.  159,  192,  213,  214,  220, 
287. 

Crawford,  Jack,  285. 

Crimson  Alibi,  The,  230. 

Crooked  Gamblers  (Milton), 
36. 

Cubism,  in,  112,  114,  117. 

Curel,  de,  225. 

Czeschka,  18,  220. 

Dalcroze,  Jaques-,  83,  115,  116, 

190,  opp.  190. 
D'Annunzio,  Gabrielle,  116,  216, 

226,  227. 
Dante,  204-207. 
Danton    (Reinhardt),    198,   opp. 

198,  270,  273. 
Darling  of  the  Gods,  The  (Be- 

lasco),  50. 
Daudet,  225. 
Deburau,  234. 
Deception,  179. 

Decoration  in  the  Theatre,  289. 
Derain,  76,  118. 
Devil's  Garden,  The  (Hopkins- 
Jones),  24,  25,  217. 
Deutsches  Theater  (Berlin)   39, 

56. 
Development  of  Scenic  Art  and 

Stage  Machinery,  285. 
Diagilefr",    Sergei,    69,    75,    118, 

121. 
Dido  and  Apneas  (Craig),  89. 
Divine  Comedy,   The,  204-207 ; 

(Geddes),  opp.  204. 
Doll's  House,  A,  225. 
Dome,  49,  55-60,  198,  202,  203, 

204,  208. 


Don  Giovanni  (Urban),  21,  140. 
Don    Juan    (Meyerhold),    150- 

151. 

Donnay,  225. 

Dostoyevsky,  209. 

Dramatic  Mono-Theatre  (Mos- 
cow), 250. 

Drayman  Henschel,  215. 

Drehbiihne,  see  Revolving  Stage. 

Drinkwater,  John,  245. 

Drop  Stage,  31. 

Dnrry  Lane  Theatre  (London), 
176. 

Du  Barry,  179. 

Dumas  fils,  225. 

Dunsany,  Lord,  245,  268,  272. 

Duse,  Eleanor,  89. 

Dymow,  229,  233,  238. 

Dynasts,  The,  273. 

Eaton,  W.  P.,  216. 

Edison,  T.  A.,  218. 

Edsmid,  255. 

Einstein,  86. 

Electra,  216. 

Elevator  Stage,  31,  35. 

Elizabethan  Playhouse,  The,  288. 

Elizabethan     theatre,      1 69-1 70, 

271,  289. 
Elliott's  Theatre,  Maxine  (New 

York),  186. 
Emperor  Jones,   The,  233,   234, 

245. 
Erler,  Fritz,  18,  220. 
Eumenides,  The,  27. 
Euripides,  218,  228. 
Europa,  268. 
Eurythmics,  190. 
Everyman,  opp.  22,  191,  229. 
Everywoman,   229. 
Expressionism,  26,  46,   1 10-126, 

127,   146;  in  drama,  254-261. 


293 


INDEX 


Expressionismus  in  Drama,  Der, 

255- 
Exter,  opp.  114. 

Faithful,   The   (N.  Y.  Theatre 

Guild-Simonson),  131-132. 
Fanny's  First  Play,  230. 
Father,  The,  225. 
Fauconnet,  289. 
Faust  (Werkbund  Theater),  33; 

(Reinhardt),  opp.  18. 
Faversham,  Wm.,  141. 
F  est  spiel,  Das,  191,  215. 
Festspielhaus    (Salzburg),     199, 

200. 
Feuerbach,  Anselm,  15,  220. 
Fiechter,  E.  R.,  288. 
Fire  Bird,  The  (Golovin),  69. 
Flickinger,  R.  C,  288. 
Florimene  (Inigo  Jones),  175. 
Fokin,  Michael,  75. 
Follies,  see  Ziegfeld. 
Follies  of  1918,  The  (Urban), 

27,  28. 
Footlights,  Abolition  of,  49-51, 

79. 
Forestage,  42,  43,  126,  138,  139, 

143,  144,  H6,  149,  1511  J74> 

176,  184,  188,  189,  197,  207, 

208,  209,  269,  271. 
Fort,  Paul,  19. 
Fortuny  System,  49,   54-56,   58, 

59,  60. 
Fourberies  de  Scapin,  Les   (Co- 

peau),   158-159. 
Frank,  Waldo,  156,  289. 
Freres    Karamazov,     Les     (Co- 

peau),  209. 
Freud,  Sigmund,  154,  248. 
Freund,  F.  E.  W.,  191. 
From  Morn   to  Midnight,  256- 

261,  265,  268,  272. 


Fuchs,  Georg,  18,  29,  134,  135, 

136,  188,  220,  271,  288. 
Fugitive,  The,  232. 
Futurism     in     decoration,     in, 

112,   114;  in  drama,  250254, 

263. 
Futurist  Synthetic  Theatre,  250- 

254,  263. 
Gabriel  Schilling's  Flight,  215. 
Galsworthy,  John,  232. 
Gamble,  W.  B.,  285. 
Garrick,  David,  69,  187. 
Garrick  Theatre   (New  York), 

106,  210. 
Gates,  Eleanor,  230. 
Gay  Lord  Quex,  The,  225. 
Geddes,    Norman-Bel,    opp.    20, 

21,    108,    137,    204-207,   opp. 

204,  289. 
Gemier,  131,  145,  270. 
General   Electric   Co.    (Berlin), 

55,  56. 
Gerstenberg,  Alice,  249. 
Getting  Married,  265. 
Glittering  Gate,   The   (Hume), 

129. 
Globe     Theatre,      Shakespeare's 

(London),  169. 
Gods  of  the  Mountain,  The,  268. 
Godwin,   15. 

Goethe,  187-188,  215,  263. 
Gbtz    von    Berlichingen    (Rein- 
hardt), 198. 
Goldberg  Isaac,  250,  251,  253, 

255- 
Golden  Doom,  The,  245,  268. 
Golem,  The,  119,  120,  179. 
Golovin,  Alexander  Yakolivitch, 

opp.  68,  69,  73,  74,  118,  150. 
Goncourt,  de,  225. 
Gontcharova,  Natalia,   114. 
Good  Little  Devil,  The,  230. 


294 


INDEX 


Gorky,  Maxim,  67,  282. 
Gotterdammerung   (Appia),   83. 
Great     Adventure,     The,     230, 

232. 
Greek   theatre,    163-166. 
Greek   Theatre  and  Its  Drama, 

The,  288. 
Green  Goddess,  The,  234. 
Griffith,  D.  W.,  180,  183. 
Grillparza,  215. 

Grosse  Schauspielhaus,  Das,  289. 
Grosses  Schauspielhaus  (Berlin), 

119,    173,    191-200,  opp.    196, 

268,  269,  276. 
Group-being,       273-275,       279, 

282. 
Grunewald,  Isaac,  119. 
Guilbert,  Yvette,  152. 

Hagemann,  Carl,   18,   139,   153, 

220,  288. 
Haigh,  A.,  288. 
Halbe,  Max,  225. 
Hamlet    (Stanislavsky  -  Craig), 

18,  26,  46,  127-129,  opp.  128; 

(Hampden  -  Bragdon),     131; 

(Reinhardt),  198;  240. 
Hammitzsch,  M.,  288. 
Hampden,  Walter,  131. 
Hannele,  215. 
Hardt,  216. 
Hardy,  Thomas,  273. 
Hartleben,  225. 
Harvey,  Martin,  28. 
Hasenclever,  Walter,   119,  256. 
Hauptmann,  Karl,  198,  215,  225, 

226. 
Hazelton,  George,  230. 
Hebbel,  263. 

Hebbel  Theater   (Berlin),   186. 
Helena's      Husband      (Hume), 

129,  130. 


Henry  IV,  part  1  (  Reinhardt ) ,  39. 

Henry  of  Au'e,  215. 

Herald,  Heinz,  287. 

Herald    Square   Theatre    (New 

York),  229. 
Hervieu,  225. 
Hewlett,  Munroe,  107. 
Heyse,  Paul,  216. 
History  of  Theatrical  Art  in  An- 
cient and  Modern   Times,  A, 

288. 
Hofmann,  Ludwig  von,  18. 
Hofrmansthahl,  Hugo  von,  200, 

216,  226,  263,  272. 
Hoftheater  (Munich),  see  Royal 

Court  Theatre  (Munich). 
Holz,  Arno,  225. 
Hopkins,  Arthur,  19,  24,  25,  31, 

32,  51,  115,  123,  132,  154-155, 

230,  231. 
Housman,  Laurence,  89. 
Howard,  Sidney,  244. 
How's    Your   Second   Actf,    19, 

154-155. 
Hugo,  Victor,  14. 
Hume,   Sam,   44,   46,    129,    130, 

opp.  130. 

Ibsen,    Henrik,    14,    16,   89,   93, 

174,  214,  224,  225,  234,  235, 

236,  237,  240. 
Immermann,  Karl,  15,  138,  opp. 

138. 
Ingalls,  186. 

In  the  Shadow  of  the  Glenn,  246. 
Intruder,    The     (Hume),     129, 

130. 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,  16,  77. 

Jacobsohn,  S.,  287. 
Jaques-Dalcroze,  see  Dalcroze. 
Jameson,  Storm,  261,  262,  263. 


295 


INDEX 


Jest,  The  (Hopkins-Jones),  26, 

116. 
John  Ferguson,  217. 
Jolson,  Al,  152. 
Jones,      Henry      Arthur,      225, 

227. 
Jones,  Inigo,  28,  172,  175,  213, 

214,  217. 
Jones,   R.   E.,   frontispiece,   opp. 

24,  25,  26,  51,  115,  116,  opp. 

122,    123-125,    132-133,    opp. 

134,  155,  214,  217,  273,  274, 

opp.  274,  289,  290. 
Jonson,  Ben,  213,  214. 
Julius  Cccsar,  96. 
Jung,  154,  248. 
Justice,  232. 

Kahane,  Arthur,  192. 

Kaiser,     Georg,     256-261,     265, 

268,  272. 
Kalmakorf,  114. 
Kamerny    Theatre     (Moscow), 

114-116. 
Kammerspielhaus    (Berlin),    17, 

268. 
Kaufmann,  Orkar,  57,  186. 
Kean,  Edmund,  69. 
King       Harlequin        ( Kamerny 

Theatre),  114. 
King    hear    ( Reinhardt-Czesch- 

ka),  opp.  16;  (Geddes),  opp. 

20. 
Klein,  Charles,  37. 
Klein,  Julius  V.,   18,   138,  opp. 

142. 
Kleines  Theater  (Berlin),  17. 
Kokoschka,  119,  256. 
Konigliches  Schauspielhaus 

(Dresden),  35,  36,  37. 
Koonen,    Alice   Georgiena,    114. 
Kornfeld,  Paul,  256. 


Korovin,  Constantin  Alexievitch, 

69,  74- 
Kreymborg,  Alfred,  244. 
Krows,  A.  E.,  38,  288. 
Kriiger,  Max,  289. 
Kiinstler     Theater      (Munich), 

134,  135-136,  139,  189. 
Kuppelhorizont,  see  Dome. 
Kuznetsoff,  114. 

La  Scala  Theatre  (Milan),  62. 

LarianofT,  118. 

Lauder,  Sir  Harry,  152. 

Lautenschlager,  Karl,  38,  138. 

Lauwick,  Herve,  249. 

Lavedan,  225. 

Lawrence,  W.  J.,  288. 

Leffler,  Heinrich,  18. 

Liberty  Theatre  (Oakland),  38. 

Liliom    (Simonson),    106,    opp. 

106,  107;  the  play,  216,  229, 

232,  234. 
Lima  Beans,  244. 
Linnebach,  Adolpf,  18,  opp.  22, 

37- 

Little  Dream,  The,  232. 

Little  Old  New  York,  234. 

Little  Theatre  (New  York),  38. 

Little  Theatre  (Philadelphia), 
117. 

Little  Theatre  Movement,  268- 
272. 

Littmann,  Max,  134,  135,  141, 
142,    143-144,   188,  271,  288. 

Liveright,  Horace,  290. 

Living  Corpse,  The  (Hopkins- 
Jones),  230;  see  Redemption. 

Loch  im  Vorhang,  Das,  289. 

Lodge,  Sir  Oliver,  265. 

London  Stage  Society,  256. 

Lonely  Lives,  215. 

Louise  (Urban),  140. 


296 


INDEX 


Love  of  the   Three  Kings,   The 

(Urban),  131. 
Lugne-Poe,  19. 
Lyentuloff,  114. 

Macbeth    (Hopkins- Jones),    26, 

opp.       122,       123-125,       155; 

(Craig),  96-101,  opp.  98,  240. 
MacKaye,   Percy,  30,  201,  244, 

270,  273. 
MacKaye,   Steele,   31,   35,   201- 

202. 
Madison  Square  Garden    (New 

York),    145,    191,    204,    205, 

206. 
Madison  Square  Theatre   (New 

York),  31,  50. 
Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  102,  116, 

216,  226,  227,  263,  272. 
Magical  City,  The,  244. 
Mallarme,  255. 
Mantzius,  Karl,  288. 
Marc  hen  des  Wolfes,  Das,  232. 
Marinetti,  F.  T.,  250,  252,  263. 
Marionettes,  275 ;  see  (Jbermar- 

ionettes. 
Martersteig,  Max,  18,  153,  220. 
Mary  of  Magdala,  2 1 6. 
Mary  Stuart,  235. 
Masefield,  John,   131,  245,  246. 
Mask,  The,  287. 
Masks,  275. 

Masque  of  Beauty,  The,  17. 
Masque  of  Blackness,  The,  214. 
Masque  of  Love,  The   (Craig), 

89. 

Masque  of  St.  Louis,  The  (Mac- 
Kaye), 201. 

Massin,  75. 

Matisse,  Henri,  76,  ill,  118. 

Matthews,  Brander,  218,  288. 

Mecca,  234. 


Medea  (Browne),  1 15,  1 1 6. 
Mediaeval  Platform  Stage,    167, 

252. 
Megrue,  Roi  Cooper,  230. 
Mencken,  H.  L.,  249. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  The 

(Kamerny  Theatre),  114. 
Metropolitan       Opera       House 

(New  York),  69,  176. 
Meyerhold,  V.  E.,   18,  74,   148- 

151,  152,  153,  220,  287. 
Midsummer  Night's   Dream,   A 

(Barker-Wilkinson),    26,    71, 

138;     (Reinhardt-Stern),    26, 

Miganadzhian,  114. 

Miles  Dixon,  245. 

Milestones,  2 30. 

Miller's  Theatre,   Henry   (New 

York),  186. 
Milton,  Robert,  34. 
Miracle,  The  (Reinhardt),   145, 

191. 
Miss  Julia,  225. 
Mme.     Chrysantheme     (Rosse), 

opp.   146. 
Mob,  The,  232. 

Modern  Drama  in  Europe,  261. 
Moderne  Buhnenkunst ,  288. 
Moderne   Theatrebau,  Der,  288. 
Moderwell,   H.  K.,  35,  37,  47, 

48,  286. 
Moliere,   26,  92,  93,    159,    172, 

174,  186,  215,  218,  219,  229. 
Molnar,  Franz,  216,  229,  232. 
Monodrama,  120,  249-250. 
Moritz,  E.,  288. 
Moscow  Art  Theatre,  18,  34,  46, 

73,  127,  148,  226,  286. 
Motion  Picture,  see  Movies. 
Movies,  178-185. 
Moving  Pictures,  see  Movies. 


297 


INDEX 


Mozart    Spielhaus     (Salzburg), 

200. 
Airs.  Dane's  Defense,  225. 
Much      Ado      About     Nothing 

(Craig),  89;  (Munich),  opp. 

118,  119. 
Musik     und     die     Inscenierung, 

Die,  16,  77-86,  115,  287. 
Musset,  de,  16,  116. 
Mystic  Abyss,  188. 

Nan,  The  Tragedy  of,  245,  246. 
Nave,  La  (Geddes),  137. 
Neighborhood    Playhouse    ( New 

York),  57- 
Neilson-Terry,  Phyllis,  32. 
Neue  Freie  Volksbuhne,   17;  its 

theatre,  57. 
Neues  Theater  (Berlin),  17. 
New     Theatre     (New     York), 

38. 
Nijinski,  75. 
Nju     (Urban),    21,    229,  233, 

238,  240. 
Nobody's  Widow  (Belasco),  51. 
Nyemirovich-Dantchenko,  18. 

CEdipe,  roi  de  Thebes  (Gemier), 

201. 
(Edipus    Rex     (Reinhardt-Har- 

vey),  28,  145,  191,  192,   198. 
On  a  Moonlit  Night,  253. 
On  Building  a  Theatre,  288. 
O'Neill,  Eugene,  224,  233,  245. 
On  the  Art  of  the  Theatre,  287. 
On  Trial  (Hopkins-Wickes),  32, 

231,  241. 
Open  Air  Theatre,  The,  286. 
Orestes  (Reinhardt),  191,  198. 
Orlik,  Emil,  18. 
Othello,  240. 
Overtones,  249,  250. 


Pageant  Wagons,  168. 

Papa  (Geddes),  45. 

Parade  (Picasso),  opp.  116,  118. 

Paris  Opera  House,  286. 

Parsifal  (Appia),  83. 

Passion,  179. 

Passion  Play,  Morse's  (Belasco), 

50. 
Path    of    the    Modern    Russian 

Stage,    The,    147,    149,    184, 

287. 
Pelleas  and  Melisande   (Jones), 

frontispiece. 
Perfall,  15,  138,  220. 
Periakoi,  27-28. 

Permanent  Settings,  44,  127-130. 
Perspective,    False,    79,    81,    86, 

95,  96,  102-106. 
Petrushka  (Benois),  opp.  no. 
Peters,  Rollo,  141,  opp.  144. 
Pevear,  Munroe  R.,  53. 
Phantom  Rival,  The,  232. 
Philadelphia  Stage  Society,   117. 
Picasso,  76,  in,  opp.  116,  118, 

opp.  124. 
Pichel,  Irving,  288,  290. 
Pierre  Patelin   (Simonson),  141. 
Pinero,  Sir  Arthur  Wing,  225, 

227,  230. 
Platform  Stage,   167,  252. 
Play  Production  in  America,  38, 

288. 
Poel,  William,  17. 
Poelzig,    Hans,    119,    197,    199, 

200. 
Pointilage,  63. 

Pompey  the  Great,  245,  246. 
Poor  Little  Rich  Girl,  The,  230. 
Portals,  42,  126,  134,  139,  140, 

141-144,   158,   184,   188,   189, 

198,  207,  208,  209. 
Portmanteau  Theatre,  141. 


298 


INDEX 


Porto-Riche,  Georges  de,  225. 

Post-Impressionism,    112,    114. 

Power  of  Darkness,  The  (Simon- 
son),  106,  217. 

Prampolini,  115. 

Prince  Igor  (Roerich),  72,  opp. 
72,  73- 

Prince  and  the  Pauper,  The 
(Peters),  141,  234. 

Proctor's  Theatre  (Mt.  Vernon, 
N.  Y.),  208. 

Prophet  e,  Le   (Urban),  21. 

Proscenium  Doors,  see  Portals. 

Provincetown  Players  Theatre 
(New  York),  58. 

Pulcinella  (Picasso),  opp.  116, 
opp.  124. 

Racine,  174,  229,  238. 

Redemption  (Hopkins  -  Jones), 
11 5.  233,  240;  see  Living 
Corpse. 

Reinhardt,  Max,  opp.  16,  17, 
opp.  18,  18,  26,  29,  39,  40,  42, 
56,  67,  119,  145,  173,  191- 
200,  opp.  198,  210,  220,  256, 
268,  270,  271,  287,  289. 

Reinhardt,  Max  (by  Jacobsohn), 
287;   (by  Herald),  287. 

Reinhardt  und  Seine  Buhne,  287. 

Reiniger,  Lotti,  289. 

Relief  Stage  (FuchV),  134-136. 

Residenz  Theater  (Munich),  38. 

Revolution  des  Theaters,  Die, 
288. 

Revolving  stage  (in  Germany), 
38-41,  57,  60,  139,  198;  (in 
America),  38;  (in  Japan), 
38,  39,  42. 

Rheingold,  Das  (Appia),  83. 

Ricciardi,  Archille,  115,  116. 

Rice,  Elmer,  231. 


Richard  III,  119;  (Hopkins- 
Jones),  132-133,  opp.  134. 

Riviere,  Henri,  19. 

Roerich,  Nicolas,  69,  72,  opp.  72, 
74,  n8. 

Rogers,  R.  E.,  244. 

Rolland,  Romain,  198,  273. 

Roller,  Alfred,  18,  220. 

Roman  theatre,  165-166. 

Romance,  230,  234. 

Romance  of  the  Rose,  The,  130. 

Rosa  Berndt,  215. 

Rosmersholm,  224. 

Rosse,  Herman,  118,  120,  121, 
opp.  146,  opp.  206,  207. 

Rostand,  Edmond,  226. 

Rostand  fils,  230. 

Rothenstein,  Arthur,  see  Ruth- 
erston. 

Rouche,  Jacques,  18,  220,  286. 

Royal  Court  Theatre  (Munich), 
138,  opp.  142,  220. 

Royal  Opera  (Berlin),  36. 

Royal  Opera  House  (Stock- 
holm), 62,  1 1 8. 

Russian  Ballet,  see  Ballets  Russes. 

Russian  Theatre  under  the  Rev- 
olution, The,  34,  114,  149, 
287. 

Rutherston,  Arthur,  71,  137,  289. 

St.  Elizabeth   (Urban),  21. 

Saint-Saens,  118. 

Salome      (Kamerny      Theatre), 

1 14,  opp.  1 14,  289. 
Salzmann,   Alexander   von,    116, 

190,  191. 
Samson  et  Delilah,  118. 
Sappho  and  Phaon,  244. 
Sartov,  180. 
Savitts,  15,  138. 
Sayen,  Lyman,  117. 


299 


INDEX 


Sayler,  O.  M.,  33,  34,  114,  248, 

287,  289,  290. 
Scenatorium    (MacKaye),    201- 

202. 
Scene-shifting,  27-46. 
Schafler,  opp.  1 18. 
Schall  und  Rauch,  17. 
Schamberg,  M.  L.,   117. 
Scheherazade  (Bakst),  69,  71. 
Schiebebiihne,  see  Sliding  stage. 
Schiller,  215,  263. 
Schiller  Theater  (Berlin),  189. 
Schinkel,    Carl    Friedrich,    187- 

188 
Schlegel,  W.  A.,  14. 
Schlenther,  Paul,  18. 
Schneider,  Manfred,  255. 
Schnitzler,  Arthur,  230. 
Screens       (Craig's),       127-128; 

(Simonson's),   131-132. 
Scribe,  225. 

Semper,  Gottfried,  188. 
Servant  in  the  House,  The,  231. 
Settimelli,  E.,  250. 
Seven  Keys  to  Baldpate,  230. 
Seven  Princesses,    The    (Jones), 

opp.  24. 
Shakespeare,  William,  26,  66,  92, 

93,   96,    138,    169,    186,    187, 

188,  213,  214,  215,  216,  217, 

218,  219,  229,  241,  242,  244, 

263. 
Shakespeare    Buhne,    opp.     138, 

138,  opp.  140. 
Shakespeare       Productions,       by 

Godwin,  15;  by  Poell,  17;  by 

Craig,    18,    46,    127-128;    by 

Urban,  43;  by  Bragdon,  131; 

by  Barker,  136-138. 
Shakespeare   Stages,    15,    17,  42, 

44,    138,    140,   opp.    138   and 

140,  144,  189. 


Shakespeare's  Theatre,  288. 
Shaw,    Bernard,    no,    182,    226, 

230,  234,  265. 
Sheldon,  Edward,  230. 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  275. 
Siegfried  (Appia),  83. 
Sievert,  Ludwig,  18,  220. 
Silver  Box,  The,  232. 
Simonson,    Lee,    106,   opp.    106, 

107,  132,  141. 
Sinking  Stage,  31,  35,  36,  37,  60. 
Skeleton  Setting,  43,  44,  130-131. 
Skin  Game,  The,  232. 
Sky-dome,  see  Dome. 
Sliding  Stage,  35,  36,  37. 
Smith,  Winifred,  288. 
Song  of  Roland,   The    (Jones), 

opp.  274. 
Sophocles,  218,  228. 
Spanish      Love      (Gemier-Berg- 

man),  131,  145-146,  234. 
Spectatorium      (Chicago),      31, 

201-202. 
Spook  Sonata,  The,  249. 
Stage  Scenery,  285. 
Stage  Yearbook  (London),  The, 

191,  289. 
Stanislavsky,  18,  26,  67,  89,  148, 

287. 
Starke,  Ottomar,  18,  220. 
Stern,    Ernst,    18,   26,   41,    220, 

287. 
Sternheim,  Kurt,  256. 
Strauss,  Richard,  200. 
Streit,  A.,  288. 
Strindberg,    August,    214,    225, 

226,  249. 
Studio  Theatres  of  Moscow  Art 

Theatre,  34. 
Study  of  the  Drama,  A,  218,  288. 
Sturm,  Der,  119,  120,  255. 
Stuttgart  theatres,  189. 


300 


INDEX 


Sudermann,  Hermann,  225. 

Sudeykin,  114. 

Sumurun     (Heinhardt  -  Stern), 

145. 
Sunken  Bell,  The,  215. 
Swinging  Stage,  32,  44. 
Sword  and  Song  (Craig),  89. 
Swords,  231,  244. 
Sylphides,  Les  (Benois),  69. 
Synge,  J.  M.,  245. 

Tairoff,  Alexander,  114. 
Tales    of  Hoffman,    The    (Ur- 
ban), 140. 
Taming     of     the     Shrew,     The 

(Harvey),  28. 
Tantris  der  Narr,  2 1 6. 
Tavern,  The,  234. 
Tchehoff,  226. 
Teatro      Olympico      (Firenza), 

172. 
Tents      of      the      Arabs,      The 

(Hume),  129,  130,  opp.  130. 
Terry,  Ellen,  16. 
Tessenow,  Heinrich,  190. 
Thamar  (Bakst),  opp.  66,  71. 
Thamira    of   the    Cithern    (Ka- 

merny  Theatre),  114. 
Theater,  Das,  288. 
Theatre  Advancing,  The,  287. 
Theatre    Arts    Magazine,     The 

129,  216,  286. 
Theatre-Craft,  287. 
Theatre   des  Arts    (Paris),    18, 

286. 
Theatre    du    Vieux    Colombier 

(Paris),    156,   201,  opp.   208, 

268,  289. 
Theatre  Guild  (New  York),  43, 

44,  106,  131,  132,  141. 
Theatre  Libre  (Pari$),  18,  272. 
Theatre  of  Color,  115. 


Theatre  of  Max  Reinhardt,  The, 

193,  287. 
Theatre  of  the  Five  Thousand, 

The,       191-199,      273;      see 

Grosses  Schauspielhaus. 
Theatre  of  the  Soul,  The,  250. 
Theatre  of  Today,  The,  35,  286. 
Theatre  of  Tradition,  The,  288. 
They,  249. 

Thirteenth  Chair,  The,  230. 
Thorndike,  A.  H.,  288. 
Thousand  Years  Ago,  A,  244. 
Three  Women  (Schamberg),  117. 
Thy  Name  is  Woman,  234. 
Tieck,  Ludwig,  15,  138. 
Time  Machine,  The,  86. 
Tolstoy,  Leo,  115,  229,  233,  234, 

240. 
Towards   a   New    Theatre,    95, 

287. 
Treasure,  The  (Simonson),  106. 
Tribune  Theater  (Berlin),  201. 
Tristan    and   Isolde    (Roerich), 

72;  (Appia),  83,  85,  86. 
Tucker,  George  Loane,  179. 
Twelfth    Night     (Urban),     32, 

opp.   44,   44,    141;    (Copeau), 

157-158,  209. 

tibermarionette,  80,  92,  274. 
Vber  Buhne  und  Bildende  Kunst, 

289. 
Uncle     Vanya     (Moscow     Art 

Theatre),  81. 
Under  Cover,  2 30. 
Unruh,  Fritz  von,  256. 
Urban,  Joseph,  21,  28,  31,  opp. 

44,  44.  52,  59,  63,  131,  140, 

141,  180. 


Van  de  Velde,  H. 
Vanity  Fair,  290. 


33. 


301 


INDEX 


Verhaeren,  Emile,  43,  44,  216, 

226. 
Viele,  Sheldon  K.,  43,  44,   131, 

289. 
Vikings  (Craig),  89. 
Voice  in  the  Dark,  A,  230. 
Volksbuhne  (Berlin),  57,  186. 
Vorticism,  112. 

Wagenhals    and    Kemper,     131, 

145. 
Wagner,    Richard,    77,    79,    92, 

144,   188,   189. 
Wagon  stage,  37,  60. 
Walker,  Stuart,  141. 
Walkiire,     Die     (Appia),     opp. 

82,  83,  84,  opp.  84,  86. 
Wallack's  Theatre  (New  York), 

52,  136. 
Walser,  Karl,  18. 
Wasmuth's      Monatshefte      fur 

Baukunst,  289. 
Wedekind,  Frank,  226,  232. 
Wells,  H.  G.,  86. 
Werfel,  Franz,  256. 
Werkbund   Theater    (Cologne), 

33- 
When      Knighthood      Was      iri 

Flower,  233. 


When  We  Dead  Awaken,  225. 
Wickes,  Joseph,  31. 
Wiene,  Robert,   119. 
Wilfred,  Thomas,  122. 
Wilkinson,     Norman,     26,     71, 

138. 
Will  of  Song,  The,  273. 
Wilson,  Henry,  17,  220. 
Winter    Garden    (New   York), 

145,  152. 
Wirk,  Willy,  17,  220. 
Wolf,  Friederich,  256. 
Wonder   Hat,    The,    130,    opp. 

130. 
World  Finder,  The  (MacKaye), 

202. 
Wright,  Frank  Lloyd,  202. 

Yegoroff,  V.  Y.,  26,  69,  70,  opp. 

7o,  73- 
Yellow  Jacket,  The,  230. 
Yevreynoff,  120,  249-250,  287. 
Young,  Wm.  A.,  117. 

Ziegfeld,  Jr.,  Florenz,  27;  his 
Midnight  Frolic  (New  York) , 
59;  his  Follies,  27,  28,  140, 
152. 

Zola,  Emile,  225. 


302 


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